A Righteous Cause
by VelocityGirl1980
Summary: The Government has fallen; brought down by allegations of sleaze, corruption and incompetence. The three main parties are in free-fall and the far right are keen to step into the void and seize power. Yet, the Nationalist Party have some very dubious links to a barely legal gang of Fascists operating underground. It's up to the Team to save England from the brink of a race war.
1. Beautiful Game

**Plot Summary:** Shaken by allegations of corruption, sleaze and incompetence, the Government of Great Britain has fallen and a general election looms. With the three main parties rapidly losing their grip, the far-right English Nationalist Party is keen to step into the void and exploit the nation's weakness. But, the extremists have a past and some very dubious links to a shadowy, underground organisation calling itself the English Defence Association. The Spooks team is on the case, working to unearth the truth before the nation is plunged into racial and religious war.

**Author's Note:** The usual disclaimers apply to this story, I own none of it. Also, the organisations here are fictional, and are in no way based on real organisations that have similar goals. Honest. Also, just to clarify, I know elections take place on the first Thursday of May, but for benefit of this story, and because it's an emergency election, it's taking place later in the summer. Thank you for reading, and please enjoy the story. Reviews would be welcome.

* * *

**Chapter One: The Beautiful Game**

Turnstiles groan on their hinges as the crowds are disgorged from the Den stadium; a human flood that rapidly washes out over the streets of south Bermondsey. Policemen snap to attention, forming a human chain, keeping the two tribes of supporters firmly separated as their mocking, profane chants shatter the stillness of the late evening air. Tonight the Policemen are lucky, the home team, Millwall, are victorious and even the most notorious of their hooligans are off to get even more profoundly drunk than they already are.

The opposition, however, are not so forgiving. A bright pink light suddenly bursts against the darkness beyond the floodlights as dense, black smoke fills the air. A distress flare hurled into the swarms of Millwall supporters that is reciprocated with a volley of stones, beer cans and bottles undoubtedly filled with piss. A split second is all it takes for all hell to break loose and a knot of rival supporters to clash in a frenzy of violence. The Police form a wall of Perspex shields as they prepare to charge the crowds, hemming them into corners to contain the trouble. It's all part of the beautiful game down this end of town.

At first, no one notices the tall, dark haired man deftly sidestepping the melee. His Millwall scarf is pulled up over his face, but he wears no jacket over his team jersey. On his arm is a fine array of amateur tattoos that show under the lights as he takes a can of Carlsberg Special Brew from a similarly attired passer-by. He pauses and studies it intently before looking down the Zampa Road, at the retreating backs of three fleeing youths. He glances left and right rapidly, then sets off at a run.

However, a stray Policeman is quick off the mark. He apprehends the man with a swift baton to the back of his knees that brings him crashing to the ground in a heap.

"For fuck's sake, mate!" the man curses heavily in a broad south London accent as he gets back to his feet again.

The Policeman snorts derisively. "In a hurry, then?" he asks, noting that the man's beer can has been crushed, it appears to have been empty after all. He even appears to be completely sober and smelling of nothing more than cologne.

The man's expression darkens in anger as he pulls down his scarf. "Have you seen it back there? Wouldn't you be a in a fucking hurry?"

He is looking over the Policeman's shoulder, watching after the hooligans who'd already successfully evaded capture. The Policeman takes a leisurely glance over his shoulder, seeing what his quarry is looking at. "Friends of yours?" His tone is mocking, the smile on his face angering the suspect even more.

The Policeman reaches for his cuffs, then the apprehended man strikes. A punch to the jaw that sends the Officer reeling in shock. Now the other man is smiling. "Do us a favour, sweetheart, and get out of my way."

And he's off again. The scarf is back over his face, obscuring most of his features. Down the sweeping sweets, under the sparse orange neon glow of the streetlamps he chases the youths. Every move they make, he mimics. Down every alley, he follows them; shinning walls and jumping fallen bins that block their path. He keeps them always in his line of vision, always just a few steps behind them. If only one of them had paused and looked, they could have seen him.

The chase leads him, and them, to a street lined with terrace houses. Most are boarded up, others occupied by large, impoverished families of asylum seekers and immigrants drawn from places even worse than this. Front gardens are over-grown wildernesses populated by discarded furniture, dens of urban foxes and nocturnal vermin feeding on the waste and refuse that lines the pavements. A stray cat scurries across the road, darting under a nearby car whose wheels seem to have been replaced by breezeblocks. Like the street's unfortunate inhabitants, it is going nowhere.

The youths stop and the man hunkers down behind the breezeblock car. He counts them: one, two, three. All in Millwall jerseys; scarfs obscuring their faces as though anyone who lives here could see them through the grime on their windows. They flit around the smartest building in the street, the local Mosque, like moths around a braziers flame. The man squints out from behind the car, unblinking lest he miss something. One of the youths produces a spray can and graffities the noticeboard just beyond the Mosques railings. Another then scales the railings, wraps his scarf around his fist and punches in a window.

"Pass it over, then. What're you waiting for?" he calls back to one of his colleagues.

Seconds later and a glass bottle is produced from a rucksack, the white cotton wick briefly visible as it's thrown to the man at the window. A spark of ignition flares as the petrol bomb takes light. He watches its sulphurous glow as it's thrown through the newly broken window. Then a second, then a third. These boys are serious; this Mosque will soon be an inferno.

"Oi!" the man springs out from his hiding place, "don't run; I'm one of you! Quick, follow me, we need to get out of here fast. The Pigs are on to us."

He has startled them, but they clock the football shirt and instantly follow as it becomes his turn to lead the chase just as the Mosque takes light. As he passes the burning building, he can just make out the letters E.D.A spray painted on the noticeboard, fresh and glittering red in the light of the lapping flames. By the time he reaches the safety of a shop awning three streets away, all he can see is a distant orange glow as the flames take hold, consuming the place of worship at its ease.

"Who are you? Who sent you?"

The oldest of the three youths fires the questions at him.

"Need to know, mate. You know how it goes," the man replies. "Did Dougie give you these orders? He told me to follow you down here, to make sure you'd done it."

The middle of the three youths lowers his scarf and looks up at him with wide eyes, glittering in the streetlamp light. "You know Dougie?" he asks, awestruck.

The man's lip curls into a half-smile, but he holds his silence.

"You can go back to him, tell him it's done. Tell him that Stevie, Gary and Nick have done as he asked and more besides. We're all together in this thing now, right?"

"Oh, you've definitely proved your worth now, lads," the man assures him, the lopsided smile getting a little wider. "Next meeting's at the Rose and Crown, Brixton. You know it?"

The elder one nods. "We'll be there. With bells on, mate."

"Nice one," he replies, preparing to set off down the road.

Before he gets too far, the youngest of the arsonists calls out: "Nice tats, mate. Who did those?"

The grin is back on the dark man's face as he turns back briefly. "My cellmate." He suppresses a laugh at the looks on their faces. They're barely out of the schoolroom; they've faced nothing worse than a grounding from their granny. They're bursting to ask questions, and he cannot resist filling them in. "Eight years in a Moscow prison for aiding and abetting their righteous cause. Plan to do the same here. See ya!" He cannot resist a little joke.

Lucas North turns away with a satisfied smile and taps the switch concealed beneath his scarf, shutting off the microscopic camera hidden in the lapel of his jersey. His evening's work is done. He can return home, run a bath and wash the stench of racial hatred from the pores of his skin.

* * *

The screen in the meeting room goes dark as the video file comes to an end. Stepping into the room from the side-lines, Harry zaps the remote, switching it off and turning to Lucas with a rare smile on his face. He's a happy man as he takes his seat at the head of the table, with Ruth Evershed to his right and Ros Myers to his left. His gaze, however, falls on Lucas.

"Excellent work, Lucas," he says, giving his tie a quick straightening. "We've got the names of the arsonists, a good look at their faces and an on-camera admission that they're working for our main target, Douglas Simpson. A great start. And, don't worry about that Policeman; I'm sure he'll understand."

Ros, on the other hand, is not quite so excited. "They seem pretty small fry to me," she says. "Just a group of kids trying to impress a big man-"

"The point is they burned a Mosque on Simpson's orders," Jo interjects, cutting Ros off and eliciting an impatient glower from her. "If this doesn't prove that there is a link between the E.D.A and the English Nationalist Party, then nothing will!"

Ruth clears her throat, unobtrusively trying to make an inroad into the meeting. "It is a big step forward, so well done, Lucas," she says, quickly glancing across the table at him. "But Ros is correct. We need a lot more on the English Defence Association if we're to prove that there is a link between them and Simpson's English Nationalist Party. As it stands, because the Queen has already dissolved Parliament for the election, we can't even rush through some legislation proscribing the E.D.A. We need to keep this investigation moving right up until we get a new Parliament and necessary action can be taken."

"We don't need to rush through legislation banning arson, though," Harry states. "So we have at least taken these three so-called activists off the streets." His hopes of an early victory against the far right seem to be dimming by the minute, and he's scrabbling at the thin rays of hope left to him.

"Ben is there any chance you can accidentally on purpose leak this video footage to your old journo friends?" asks Lucas, anxious lest his evening's work be written off completely.

Ben doesn't take long to think it over. "Definitely," he says. "The tabloids have been pretty sympathetic towards the English Nationalist Party, though. They'll skate over it, but the broadsheets are desperate for an expose on them."

Malcolm, so far silently taking in proceedings, finally wades in. "What are the three main parties doing about all this? Surely they're not sitting back and letting these fascists walk all over them?"

For such a mild-mannered man, it is quite a startling rebuke.

"They're in free-fall," Harry eventually answers him. "These allegations of Police corruption, incompetence and sleaze, as well as the economy going tits up again, has rocked them. It's brought down the Government already and the public have completely lost faith in all mainstream politicians. A fact not lost on the English Nationalists and they're milking it for all it's worth."

Ros rolls her eyes. "You're not going to believe this, but," she explains drearily. "I've been keeping an eye on the former Home Secretary, and he's still going to that damn club. The last thing this country needs right now is more Politicians colourful private lives being splashed across the front pages of the damn red tops."

Jo sighs, leaning back in her chair as she thinks it over. "I can have a word, if you like?" she says, looking over at Ros. It is her way of apologising for her earlier interruption and Ros is quick to accept with a nod.

"Thanks, Jo. We need the former Government to hold it together and be on their best behaviour until the vote is done."

Harry gathers his papers up, the first sign that the team meeting is coming to an end. "Ruth, keep digging on Dougie Simpson and anyone else in the upper echelons of the English Nationalist Party and see if you can trace them to the E.D.A. Lucas, keep in with that asset you have in the E.D.A; Ros, work with Lucas. I may need you to go undercover at some point. Jo, kick the old Home Secretary back into shape, but not so much that he enjoys it. Ben, I need you to monitor reaction to the burning of the Mosque last night. And, finally, Malcolm, you keep up with the intel on both of these organisations. We need to squeeze them hard on this."

Malcolm rubs his eyes. "Which is why I've been asking for an assistant on this, Harry. I'm a little over-stretched here."

"An assistant?" Ros repeats, getting out of her seat. "You're not thinking of leaving us, are you?"

"Of course he isn't!" Harry answers before Malcolm can get a word out. "And don't worry, Malcolm. We're on to it."

"You said that the last time," Malcolm mutters as he leaves the meeting room.

Harry does not hear him. Instead, he falls into step with Ruth as they head back towards their respective desks. Lucas, meanwhile, needs air. He drops his file onto his desk, but carries on walking out of the back of the Grid and up the stairs to the roof of Thames House.

* * *

Once up there, he breathes deeply and freely. Up there, he can look out over the city and see it as a unified whole. A network of streets, avenues and broad, sweeping boulevards that stretch out into the unfathomable distance under clear blue skies. Is it a hot day, early summer, but up there the air is cool as a light wind sweeps the rooftops of London. He tests his head for heights and looks down into the swarming streets below.

He cannot tell from up there, but down below a battle is being fought. The Government is dissolved, the three party system going into free-fall in a morass of sleaze, corruption and an economic storm that has seen unemployment spiral. The people are desperate, they are seeking scapegoats that the far right are only to happy to provide. It is a cycle repeated through every history in every country, not just Great Britain. It is a well of disaffection and disillusionment on which the far right fascists gorge themselves, bloating their way up the opinion polls and squeezing all opposition out of their way. But, not if he could help it.

"Hey."

Her voice jolts him out of his reverie and he takes an instinctive step back from the railings around the edge of the building. It is Ros. She's standing there wrapped in a three-quarter length black coat tied at the waist, despite the warmth of the day. He looks her up and down, admiring the way it accentuates her slender curves, down to her legs and feet forced into three inch heels. Her head is cocked to one side, a quizzical look in her eyes as she regards him in return.

Ros clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "Eyes back in your head, North." She is smiling, though. She has the look of a woman who'd been standing there for a long time before he noticed her presence.

He wants to reel off some witty rejoinder, but he's not in the mood. "Hey, yourself," is the best he can manage.

"I wasn't running you down in the meeting, Lucas," she says, glancing up at him. "You did well last night. It's just, we still need to do a lot more it wipe them out. That's all I meant."

He raises a shadow of a smile. "I know," he assures her, still sounding dejected. "It's just, I never thought I'd see the day, in this country, where the far right extremists were actually in with a chance of winning a General Election and forming the next Government. We fought bastards like these in the trenches."

"People have short memories," she answers, linking her arm through his. "It's ironic, they claim to support our troops, but they're siding with the very organisations we fought the second world war against. They'll be dressing up in Jesus robes, next."

Lucas sighs. "They're just kids, Ros. They're probably back in school right now."

Ros looks sceptical. "I doubt that very much. The school bit, I mean. They're probably down the docklands looking out for consignments of Muslamic ray guns being shipped into the country."

Lucas snorts with a sudden burst of laughter, making him double up as he chokes. Ros grins, giving him a sharp pat on the back as he continues to choke on his own amusement. Things are bad, but they're still allowed to laugh about it at least. Together, they make their way back downstairs, back onto the Grid, ready to put a stop to the race war before it's even had a chance to begin.


	2. Mother Superior

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed the first chapter, I really appreciate your feedback. The usual disclaimers apply and I own none of this (besides my OCs: Imam Atallah, the convert Kareem and the ex- Home Secretary, William Carson). Thanks again for reading and, if you have a minute, reviews would be greatly appreciated.

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**Chapter Two: Mother Superior**

The space is small, a peaceful haven in the pulsing heart of Birmingham city centre. The walls, brickwork shrouded by a tapestry of honeysuckle and ivy, seem to subdue the noise of the traffic that flows morning, noon and night. A fountain trickles in the middle of the small lawn, surrounded by a bed of primroses and geraniums, their scent hanging heavily in the warm summer air. Facing the east, the direction of Mecca, the whitewashed Mosque stands tall and imposing against the skyline. On a bench by the Mosque's back wall, a young man with a neatly trimmed beard, dressed in a pristine white salwar kameez, sits and studies the text of the Holy Book open in his lap. Periodically, he stops, his gaze roves over the small garden around him without really looking at anything in particular. His steel-grey eyes are clouded over, as though inwardly grappling with the meanings embedded in the passages he has just browsed.

He is relieved, therefore, when the Imam steps out of the backdoor of the Mosque, to the right of where he sits.

"Salaam, Imam Atallah," he greets his spiritual leader, getting to his feet as the Imam sits.

"Salaam, brother Kareem," the Imam replies, regarding the younger man carefully. "Tell me, Kareem, have you spoken with your mother and father?"

Once he is sat back down, Kareem leans forwards still with the Koran clasped in his left hand and seems to struggle for the right words to say. "I came out here to meditate," he eventually says, "to pray to Allah for guidance because neither my mother nor my father can understand what I have become. They are Apostates; Infidels. They call me by my birth name. Only I, of all my family, have been turned to the path of Allah, the one true God. Is this His will? Or should I continue to fight, to make them see reason?"

Imam Atallah flinches at the use of the words "infidel" and "apostate", but recovers himself quickly. "The Book tells us that if it is the will of Allah, it will come to pass. In that sense, all the prayer and meditation in the world will not change anything. If Allah wills your family to come to his house, it will happen. If he doesn't, they will not. Even if they do not, you must accept the will of Allah and not continually fight against it."

Kareem's expression clouds, his eyes cast downwards as though some miraculous scripture will materialise in the cracks of the stone path at his feet, giving him the answers he craves. Imam Atallah, however, is not quite finished and he continues to speak to him, his accented voice soothing and gentle.

"You may wish to approach this dilemma in another way," he says, drawing Kareem's attention back to him. "Contemplate this: why has Allah so willed it that your parents reject your new faith? May be, it is to give you the time and space you need to concentrate on your own spiritual enlightenment without them crowding around you, draining your energy and resources."

The younger man is thoughtful. "Could it be that Allah means me to show the way through example?" he asks, rhetorically. "That if they see me living my life as a good Muslim, abiding by the teachings of the Prophet, they will in time come to see the truth?"

Gratified, Imam Atallah smiles and nods. "That is the best way, Kareem. Lead by example. Show them you are still their son and remember, they may be rejecting your faith, but they are not rejecting you as a person. Stay in touch with them, continue to love and honour them as your parents as you always have."

"Surely Allah does not mean for me to love and honour infidels-"

"They are not infidels," the Imam cuts him off, hand held up for silence. "They may be ignorant and afraid of the great changes you are currently going through. That doesn't make them infidels. Please, think about what I have suggested to you."

Suddenly cowed, like an upstart swiftly thrust back in his place, Kareem bows his head in a manner of supplication. "Forgive me, Imam," he continues, more quietly. "I worry also because they still live in London, where I grew up, where all these attacks on Mosques are happening-"he breaks off, steadying his tone as his face flushes with anger. "I feel as though I should be there, doing something about it. Standing up for the Muslim brotherhood who're suffering and being degraded by the English Defence Association. Surely those who burn temples are damned?"

"They are also criminals," the Imam answers. His tone is calm; his smile still in place. But behind his rich, brown eyes, concern clouds the clarity of his expression. "They will be caught and punished with the full force of the law. Any retaliation that we make will only play into their hands. They think we are all West-hating radicals and, I trust you understand, fighting fire with fire will only reinforce their prejudices and turn the fires into an inferno. We will all be consumed by the flames, Kareem. We will achieve nothing but further alienation."

Kareem's lips are compressed and white, barely showing through his beard. The retort is on the tip of his tongue, but the placidity of the Imam breaks down his pent up anger. However, his tone is bordering on the sullen as he replies. "You speak of leading by example," he states, "would actions not demonstrate to everyone my commitment to Islam?"

"No, it would land you in jail," replies Imam Atallah. As an after-thought, he adds: "Violence would make you no better than the E.D.A thugs you claim to despise. I think you are intelligent and thoughtful enough to realise that all by yourself. With that, Kareem Abdul, I wish you peace. Think carefully on all we have discussed this morning. Salaam."

Their meeting is over; the Imam rises and departs swiftly to honour an interview granted to a radio news station. Another appeal for calm in the wake of more attacks on Mosques in London. Kareem sets down his copy of the Koran in the seat vacated by the Imam and turns back to the tranquil garden. Bees pollinate, the fountain gurgles with crystal waters and the flowers appear almost phosphorescent in the summer sun. However, he shuts his eyes against the emerald lawns and the hovering insects and dives deep down into his own thoughts. He is treading a coastal path on the edge of a very steep cliff. One slip-up and it will mean certain death. Or, one sudden movement, which comes from directly behind him.

"I thought you were right, Kareem."

Kareem is jolted out of his reverie with a gasp. He turns in his seat to find an Asian man of roughly twenty-five looking back at him from the doorway. "Ahmed, you startled me. Sit down, let's talk."

Finally, he thinks, he might just be getting somewhere.

* * *

The radio in the van crackles as outside interference intrudes upon their reception, making Lucas curse under his breath. Ros clicks her tongue, but is otherwise unperturbed by the break up of the news broadcast. She turns to Lucas, beside her in the passenger seat of their unmarked van, and rolls her eyes, head resting casually against the padded headboard.

"We already know what it's going to say," she remarks, drily. "Appeals for calm from the token moderate Imams and Clerics that I swear the BBC keep in a shed at the bottom of the Director General's garden; strong but utterly empty words of condemnation from silver-tongued, vote whoring politicians and nauseating attempts at self-justification from ring-winger racists trying desperately to squeeze themselves into suits of polite respectability. Repeat ad infinitum."

Lucas suppresses a laugh and turns his face towards the tinted window. Outside, the populace is in no hurry to get home from a hard day's slog in the office. The air is warm with the promise of a sultry summer's night ahead and they're keen to make the most of it while it lasts. They linger outside bars and cafes, sipping cool drinks and slipping their shoes off under tables, letting their hot feet knead the cool pavements, under the shade of wide café parasols. On the surface, life is sweet this summer as the populace bask in the rare heat wave.

Meanwhile, Lucas and Ros get their radio broadcast back.

"Imam Sadiq Atallah from Birmingham's Redcar Mosque today condemned the actions of the E.D.A, while also appealing for calm among the nation's Muslim communities…" the newsreader's voice chimes from the gritty speakers.

He and Ros exchange a look.

"What did I tell you?" she asks, shrugging. "Mystic bloody Meg, I am."

"Members of my own congregation are extremely angry and confused about the escalation of attacks on Mosques," the Imam on the radio says, uninterrupted by static for once. "But I appeal to Muslims all over England, think carefully about what you are doing. Do not retaliate, do not respond and we will prevail…"

The rest of the interview washes over Lucas as he casts a glance towards the back of the van. On the other side of the partition their listening equipment is rigged up and ready to go. They're on a rescue mission for the former Home Secretary.

"Speaking of Holy Orders," he says, jerking his head back. "How do you think Jo's getting on in there? Should be ready now?"

Ros smiles. A full, rare smile that is usually treated with the same awe and shock as UFO sightings.

"Do you know, I almost wish it was me going in there," she states wistfully. "I think I'd be rather good at it."

Lucas grins, a definite twinkle in his eye. "I'm saying nothing!"

Ros is scandalised, her mouth dropping open but her reply being cut off by a shrill text alert from Lucas's mobile phone. He digs it out of his breast pocket, giving the message a glance over. "That's us," he states, replacing the phone. "She and Ben are ready to go."

They swing open their doors, simultaneously dropping to the pavement and walking round the back of the van. Lucas casts a quick glance around, making sure the coast is clear enough before opening the back doors. Ros, however, gives him the nod to go right ahead. The people all around them are too immersed in their own little world to pay much attention to them. Once inside, the shut out the world entirely, ensconcing themselves in a tardis-esque cocoon of listening equipment, tracking devices and surveillance monitors. Ros fits an earpiece while exchanging one final look with Lucas before swinging into action. "Come in Alpha One?"

* * *

"Alpha One," Jo confirms as she turns to check her reflection in the dressing room mirror. "I'm about to go in."

On the other end of her earpiece, Ros' tone is almost gleeful – for her. "Good. Get in there and straight back out again. We can't have nice girls like you picking up any bad habits."

"Ha bloody ha," replies Jo, straightening the front of her garment. Her mood is not improved by the distant sound of Lucas's snort of laughter. "Tell him he can shut it, too."

She knew she was going to regret offering to retrieve the former Home Secretary, but she didn't realise how much. Her Nun's habit is stuffy, made from stiffly starched linen that crackles ominously every time she moves. The headdress is making her scalp hot and damp with sweat already. She reaches down beside the dressing table and picks up a large, flexible rattan cane turns scarlet with embarrassment. She takes a deep breath as she gets a feel for it; this is just another job and these are the tools of her trade.

"Right," she says as she opens her eyes again. "I'm going in."

Outside her door, women mill about in small groups in alcoves, or appearing through doors that lead into chambers that line the long, dark corridor she finds herself in. Most are dressed as schoolgirls, others in the full PVC dominatrix get-up that seems to glow in the dull light and, she notes with relief, she isn't the only Sister of Mercy present. From behind the mysterious closed doors, soft moans emanate the crack of a whip or the cold clinking of chains as the punters revel in their darkest peccadilloes. This is a place where anything goes, especially the stuff they could never tell the wife. Jo tries to imagine the scene: the wife in her curlers and flannel nightie, whip in hand and nine-inch heels.

As she passes through the club, her gaze rakes over the other women and she mimics their demeanour and mannerisms. Quickly, she adapts to her new disguise and fills out her role as she reaches the right place. She grips the door handle in her rattan free hand and draws another deep breath for fortitude. She is the Mother Superior of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence.

The first thing that greets her on the other side of the door is a heavy waft of burning oils. The room is softly furnished, with red and pink overhead lighting. Her "charges" are lined up against the back wall, like convicts waiting for the bullet. In the room, school style desks are lined up neatly. Six in all. They are still stuffed in their business suits, but perhaps they like it that way. Ben is at the end of the line, camera just visible in a holdall dropped at his feet. He, too, is in a smart suit. Her gaze moves along the line, not seeing the men as individuals until she spots her quarry. The former Home Secretary, William Carson, in the middle and trembling with nervous anticipation. A wicked grin spreads slowly across her face as she recognises him. He began his political ascent with the soundly Protestant Ulster Unionists before defecting the mainstream party. Small wonder he has a kink for being humiliated by women dressed as Nuns.

She arranges her face into what she hopes is an expression of lascivious delight as she gives her cane a good flexing, pointedly not looking at Ben lest she dissolve into helpless laughter. Her mission to remain serious at all times is not helped by uninvited imaginings of the looks of Ros and Lucas's faces as they listened in on this little role-play.

"Who's been a naughty boy, then?" she asks the room at large.

Slowly, each man raises a shaking hand.

"Me, mistress," they reply, tremulous and fearful. It's all part of the act and, to Jo's relief, the signal for one of her "colleagues" to enter and start reading out their made-up rap sheets.

When they each shuffle over to a desk each, Jo makes sure she gets straight to the former Minister.

"See that man at the end," she whispers low in his ear while her colleague continues the lecture.

Carson's eye moves to the end of the line. "What about him?"

"He's a journalist from a tabloid and he's filming everything," she adds, softly and pretending to whisper sweet nothings in his ear. "You have to get out of here now."

She withdraws slightly, watching the effect her words have had on him. The colour drains from his face as he looks back at her, he swallows hard as the seriousness of the situation dawns on him. "Are you sure?" he asks, then adds: "Shit, the camera."

She grabs him by the tie, pulling him across the desk almost. "You, Mister Carson, are a very naughty boy. I think you need to be taken in hand, one-on-one, right now!"

She winks at Ben as she whirls round, ready to get Carson out of that place, a signal for him to follow as soon as possible. Once outside, she lets go his garment and breaks into a run while Ros makes contact once again:

"Good work, Jo, tell him to get out the back now. Lucas is waiting for him. Follow us back to the Grid once Ben is out, too."

"Consider it done, over and out."

Jo goes dark again as she issues Carson's instructions before ducking back into her dressing room. Gratefully, she divests herself of her costume. She abandons it in a heap before fleeing the building, to the outside world where Ben is waiting, remarkably composed for someone who'd just sprung a high-ranking Politician in a sordid sex-club.

"He's gonna go mental when he realises we tricked him," he remarks.

Jo shrugs. "So?" she asks. "Come on, we need to get back to Thames House. It's time we spelled a few things out to our Honourable friend."

Even back out in the open, she feels tainted by her charade. But, with one final backward glance at the building, she ducks into the waiting car with Ben already at the wheel.

* * *

With one graceful leap, Fidget the cat scales Ruth's kitchen counter. His emerald eyes glitter as the rising aroma of roasting chicken begins to fill the room, ears pricking up at the sounds of the fat melting, hissing and spitting in the baking tray. The tip of his tail twitching as he glances up at Ruth expectantly. She ignores him as she ties her apron strings. However, he keeps the beacon of hope aflame in his feline heart that his birthday and Christmas have come at once. If only he could read his owner's mind, for Ruth has hardened her own human heart to his plight. With one gentle shove, she has swept him away in a ginger blur as he half-falls, half-jumps to the linoleum floor.

"Don't even think it, moggie," she warns him, opening a Nigella Lawson on the small space of countertop that still remains free of clutter and flour dust.

She reads over the instructions one more time, double-checking she has done everything to the very last letter. Potatoes. She swoops on the tray of potatoes ready to be bunged in the oven with the chicken and hastily shoves them in, forgetting to use her oven-gloves and almost inflicting third degree burns on herself in the process. Lawson always makes it look so easy, with her finger-sucking, lip-smacking, gastro-porn sensuality. Now, Ruth surveys the wreckage of her kitchen in small bewilderment. Dirty dishes stacked in the sink; jagged, broken egg shells hastily tossed in a bin bag by the back door and a busted packet of flour making it look like Christmas. She sighs. Domestic Goddess she is not, but God loves a trier.

The clock on the walls informs her that it's almost seven o'clock. Her heart backflips as she realises that Harry is due any minute.

"Okay, okay," she repeats between deep breaths, trying to steady her nerves. She goes through the checklist in her head: dress, check. Shoes, check. Make up… She rushes to the mirror in the hallway, grabbing her make-up bag from the living room as she goes. She reapplies her lipstick, touches up her eye shadow and liner, making sure everything is blended to perfection. Then, as she thinks to straighten her evening gown, his footsteps sound from outside, heavy against the paving stones of her path. She freezes as a thrill of excitement courses down her spine, but waits until he knocks, not wanting to rush out there like a hormonal teenager. Then, a conundrum. She is right beside the door, if she answers right away, it will look as if she was hanging around waiting for him. But, how long to keep him waiting? She turns it over in her mind, inwardly grappling with how long is too long?

By the time she realises she is genuinely wasting time, it's been a full minute. Pulling herself together with a mental shakedown, she opens the door wide, a smile on her face as she takes in his appearance. Smart, as always. Waist coated under the dinner jacket. Black tie. Hair neatly combed and, most appreciated, a bottle of red in one hand and a bouquet of wild flowers in the other. His green eyes sparkle merrily as he looks her up and down.

"Love the apron!" he grins.

"Shit!" she hisses, almost kicking herself.

"I tell you what," she adds, reaching behind her back to pull the strings loose. "Why don't you go away and come back again in again in a few minutes. We can pretend that didn't just happen."

He laughs, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. "You look wonderful, Ruth. Honestly."

She closes the door behind him and gratefully receives the wine and flowers. For a moment, however, they simply stand and look to one another in a moment of tense silence. She casts around desperately for something witty, intelligent and clever to say.

"Dinner's nearly ready," she blurts out, gesturing more violently than she intended to with the flowers and knocking a few loose petals to the floor.

He pretends he doesn't notice, but his grin widens. "Smells delicious," he replies. "I hope you didn't go to too much trouble?"

The kitchen door is open; the trail of destruction clearly visible. She affects a casual air. "Don't be silly! It was nothing. Come on in, let's start with the wine."

She steers him swiftly past the kitchen and straight through to her small dining room. The table is set with her finest china and silver – a dinner set gift from her mother following her Graduation. The small room is flooded with the late evening sunshine, making the crystal glasses catch and splinter the light. It is warm, but not too hot and the scent of the wild flowers adds a rustic charm to their setting.

As she goes to pour the wine, Harry moves to her side. Close enough to feel him breathing, the expansion of his chest at her side. "Allow me, Ruth," he says, gently taking the bottle from her hand. She shivers again, but soon relaxes. It's only Harry, after all. They've been dancing around their feelings for each other for years now.

"So, how's the Home Secretary now?" she asks, hoping that the subject of work will bring her back down to earth.

Harry almost spills the wine.

"Not happy," he replies, unable to stop himself chortling. "I almost feel sorry for the poor man. Ros and I decided it would be best to give him one night to cool down and tomorrow we can talk some sense into him. He's the most sensible of his party and the people actually rather like him. We need him, Ruth. The Country needs him."

Ruth frowns. "They say he's lost the will to fight," she remarks. "That he's given in the English Nationalist Party already."

"He's been threatened by them, more like," Harry says, taking the seat at the opposite end of the small, rectangular table.

"Honestly? We know this for sure?"

Harry gives a small nod. "They've got him over a barrel," he replies. "But if we can discredit them, that won't matter. That's why we needed to get him out of those bloody sex-clubs he frequents. He's not perfect, Ruth. Nobody is and we've all got our little … eccentricities. But Carson and the Coalition are damn sight better than the Fascists we're currently fighting."

Ruth is already well aware of that. They have got to make the most of what they have, or something much worse will take their place. She sips her wine, building up to one of the reasons she has got him round for dinner in the first place.

"About that, Harry," she begins, leaning forward in her seat. "I'm as worried as everyone else about the English Nationalist Party getting into Government and I want to do my bit to stop it."

His expression turns quizzical. "Oh," is all he says, already suspicious about the path she is starting to lead him down.

Ruth picks up on it, starts to have second thoughts, but plunges on anyway. "I know I don't normally do field work," she says. "But I want to go undercover with the English National Party-"

"Not a chance!" he cuts right across her. His fist closes quickly around his glass, almost crushing it.

She takes a moment to let him calm down, but can tell she has her work cut out persuading him. "Harry, just think of the possibilities-"

"That's what Ros is for, Ruth," he reminds her. "And Jo, Lucas, Ben…"

Ruth deflates. "I know that, Harry," she says, silently imploring him to relent. "I just thought I could help, too. I've done it before and I thought I did rather well."

"You did brilliantly," he is quick to assure her. "But this is far more dangerous, much more risky. I cannot – will not – risk any harm coming to you. You're too important."

She knows she should be flattered and she is. However, she cannot deny to herself that she had her heart set on doing something far more tangible in the battle against the rise of the far right. For the moment, however, she lets the matter drop. She has not given up, though.

"All right, Harry," she concedes, for the moment. "But at least let us reach a compromise. Tell me you'll keep me in mind if you need someone to go undercover for you?"

He pauses, reluctant to agree even to that small concession. Eventually, however, he nods. "Very well. I'll keep you in mind."

She grins, inwardly jumping for joy.

"No promises, mind!" he adds firmly.

It's all Ruth needs. She whirls round and makes for the kitchen just in time to stop the smoke alarm making its presence felt by screaming its siren. The chicken is perfect, the potatoes golden and crisp. Her mood is such that even Fidget gets the crisp skin and a few scraps of chicken wing. Finally, everyone is happy. For the time being, at least.


	3. Electioneering

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply and I own none of this. Thanks again for reading, and if you have a moment, please review.

* * *

**Chapter Three: Electioneering**

Ruth looks up from her monitor, glancing at the clock on the wall. Twenty-five minutes past eight. She reaches into the top drawer of her desk, withdrawing a packet of loose leaf tea before looking back at the screen. Twenty-six minutes past the hour. She logs out of the website she's just hacked into and shuts down the web page as the printer beside her computer stirs into life; a crisp sheet of A4 gliding out of its mouth bearing the names, addresses and personal details of every member of the English Defence Association. Another, and then another. A sequence of e mails passed between the leadership is next and she decides she does have time to make the tea before Harry arrives after all.

While the kettle boils, memories of the previous evening rise to the surface of her thoughts. At midnight, they stood on the porch while waiting for a taxi; they had kissed under the trellises and the orange glow of her security light. They agreed to do it again. Soon. She smiles as the clock strikes eight-thirty and the man himself steps onto the Grid just as she's straining the morning tea.

"Morning, Ruth!"

His voice calls cheerily across the empty office space. He couldn't possibly have seen her, but who else would be in at this hour, clattering about the cramped kitchenette at eight-thirty precisely? The familiarity lightens her mood further. Lifting two steaming mugs of tea, she bumps the door open with her hip and sweeps into his office just as he shrugs off his coat. The warmest summer in years, and he's still wearing a full length coat. But, as always, it's straight on to business.

"I've been looking at the E.D.A's website," she informs him, pulling a chair up to the side of his desk.

He cocks a brow at her. "By 'looking' you mean 'hacking', I take it?"

Her gaze drops, like a child caught out in wrongdoing. "Well," she pauses. "Yes."

Harry stifles a laugh. "Excellent! Anything interesting?"

Ruth pauses, her hands folded in her lap as she fixes him with a winning smile. "Actually, yes," she replies lightly. "Last night, after you left, I had a quick look at the English Nationalists Party website. There were some internal emails sent detailing some electioneering happening down in Wandsworth, along Trinity Road and the connecting streets. It'll be the usual party footsoldiers, but, the party leader, the esteemed Mister Simpson himself, will be coming along to win the hearts of minds of Wandsworth along with them. What I was thinking was, maybe we could commandeer one of the empty houses on the route and wait for them to come knocking. What do you think?"

Harry leans back in his seat, elbows braced against the armrests, fingers steepled as he mulls over the suggestion. "We could have Ros and Lucas in there posing as a married couple, concerned about the rise of Islamic extremism."

"Well, actually, about Lucas," she interjects. "I was thinking he could hang on to his Asset in the English Defence Association, rather than risk being caught out posing as a voter in Wandsworth as well."

As fond of Lucas as they both are, they have to admit he looks more the E.D.A type than anyone else on the Grid or in Section D. Those prison tattoos just give him a certain edge to his appearance. Harry is forced to concede the point. "We send Ros in then," he suggests.

Ruth notices his tone becoming guarded, but she's set on her course now.

"What I actually want to suggest is that I can go in," she replies, treading carefully towards the point before rushing to back it up with carefully planned reason and common sense. "I can pose as a single mother working two jobs to keep a roof over her head, concerned about the fact that my kid goes to a school where thirty different languages are spoken and he's a minority in his own country. All the usual guff they come off with to validate their racist stance. I can do that, and make valuable inroads into the party itself. Meanwhile, Lucas moles his way into the EDA and we're working in conjunction to bring these bastards down. What do you say, Harry? Last night you promised you'd think about letting me go into the field."

The silence is not a promising one. Harry's buried his face in the palm of his hand, kneading at his eyes. After a long pause, those green eyes peek from between his fingers, as though he's looking, but doesn't want to see. Ruth smiles, a silent challenge is thrown for him to come up with a better idea. He sighs; a sign she's won the first round of deliberations. Another minute passes and his arm falls limp to the desk, he turns to her with a hang-dog expression. Victory.

Ruth drains the rest of her tea. "You'll not regret this, Harry."

* * *

Ros smiles at the man next door, making sure she catches his eye. "Morning!" she calls out, waving a hand in a gesture of greeting as she walks up the garden path. "Just helping my friend move in."

While he tries to pretend she's not talking to him, she gives his garden the once over. Plain, nothing out of the ordinary. A dog tied up at the back, washing hanging limp from the line, a small child's slide toppled on its side in the over-grown lawn. Turning to her immediate surroundings, she prods at the rotting picket fence that divides this man's garden from 'theirs'.

"Have you called the Council about this?" she asks the friendly neighbour. "It could be dangerous."

He pauses, sags with resignation as he turns to look at her again. "Dunno, sweet 'art," he retorts, and cuts off the possibility of any further discussion by turning his back square to her and returning to the dissected car engine at his feet.

On the scales of sociability, he's clearly a man after her own heart. But, she has to make sure the neighbours see Ruth arriving, witness the process of her 'moving in', even if the façade is only for a few days. Satisfied that she's bothered this man enough, she returns to the boot of her car and carries a box of second hand toys into the open front door of Ruth's new house. She cannot resist giving the taciturn neighbour a wink as she passes again, even if he doesn't see it.

Inside the house, Lucas is fixing the bugs in place. One in the telephone; another in the wall cavity and hidden by a strategically placed fake family portrait with mummy Ruth smiling out from the behind a young child. It was amazing what Malcolm could do with just Photoshop and stock images. A whole new life for people who don't exist spring up from nowhere in technicolour glory. There's even a fake wedding photo sat on the mantelpiece, Ruth looking the princess bride in all white. Ros, however, wrinkles her nose at it.

"Would she have that even though she's divorced now?" she asks.

Lucas looks up from the telephone he's still busy tapping. "Yes, she's not divorced any more. Change of story, she's actually a widow."

Ros smiles as she fills in the blanks. "Don't tell me," she picks up. "Husband killed by Muslim fanatics and nothing was done about it? Media don't care; widow and only child left to pick up the pieces?"

He grins back at her. "How can they resist her with a back story like that?"

"And if the English Nationalist Party try to make her a cause célèbre, she doesn't want the attention because she's afraid of reprisals from the Muslim community," Ros concludes as she flops down into the nearest serviceable sofa. A five minute break wont hurt, especially since her meeting with the former Home Secretary begins in an hour – his first since they bundled him out of a sex club late the previous evening. He should have had time to calm down by now.

"How are you feeling about tonight?" she asks

For a long moment, it's as though Lucas has swapped personalities with the man next door. He hunches over the telephone, ignoring her question as he squints, inserting the tiny fibre into the telephone receiver. This is his first under-cover op since he found himself locked in a police holding cell and came within a whisker of being blown to smithereens. Unwilling to let him simply evade the question, she is about to repeat herself. However, he finally speaks.

"Fine," he bluntly states. "Why wouldn't I be?"

She twitches the corner of her mouth into a half-smile. "Because this is one of those rare and heart wrenching occasions where you won't have the glorious benefit of my sunny disposition, cheering you through a long night undercover with a bunch of bullet-headed Fascists."

That reminds her, he had agreed to shave off his hair to 'blend in' with said 'bullet-heads'. She tries to console herself with the certain knowledge that it will grow back. She tries to reason with herself that she really shouldn't care, but she does.

"I hope you've got the band aids ready," he says, putting the telephone in the front room back together again.

"Why?" she asks, raising a brow. "You're not planning on having any mishaps, are you?"

"No," he replies, before pausing thoughtfully. "But all that knuckle dragging can leave one with nasty gravel burns."

"Aww! You poor thing," she sighs, all mock sympathy and exaggerated cooing as they both dissolve into an increasingly rare moment of laughter. For a moment, it occurs to her that she should probably kiss him. She almost does, but stops herself at the last minute. Instead, she moves past him, collecting the second hand toys they gathered to make it look as though a child really does live in this house. As she busies herself, she glances back over her shoulder to see if he noticed anything. However, Lucas is already moving on to his next task: a concealed camera in a crevice of the door frame. Harry has ordered that not so much as an inch of this house be left unbugged, unseen or unheard for the whole time that Ruth is in it, making new friends.

The sounds behind her stop abruptly. "Ros," he says, quiet. "Is everything all right?"

He did notice. "Fine," she replies, a touch tartly. She tries a full blown smile to diffuse the thickening atmosphere. "Everything's fine."

* * *

William Carson, former Home Secretary, put out of a job by the recently dissolved Government, sits across the table of the Section D meeting room. If any of them had thought an early night and an easy start would dispel his fury, they were very much mistaken. Jo and Ben, the two stooges sent in to rescue him from his favourite bondage haunt, could barely bring themselves to look him in the eye. Ruth sat buried in some papers, her eye fixed on one spot, so clearly not actually really reading them.

However, at either end of the table, Harry and Ros sit stony-faced and deadly serious. They seem to keep their eye fixed on each other, rather than the Home Secretary, however. But, they both know this man is a means to their end. He's his party whip – the one to whom all others rally. They need him to buck his ideas up and fast.

"I could have your job for this, Harry Pearce," Carson simmers angrily from the side, his Irish accent made harsh. "And yours, missy," he adds with a curt nod to Jo.

Ros clicks her tongue impatiently, not even prepared to dignify those remarks with comment. Harry, however, has no such restraint – especially when dealing with politicians. "You'll do what?" he guffaws. "You're going to get me fired because I sent my Officers in to dig you out of some seedy sex club? What I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall in the PM's office when that tête-à-tête takes place!"

Under the soft meeting room lighting, Carson turns an even paler shade of white as he chokes on his own, undoubtedly witty, retort. Several seem to want to rush out at once, but he ends up spluttering into his glass of water, disguising it as a dry throat. Ros, however, has Lucas on her mind. And Ruth. And everyone else who was out there trying to beat the Fascists currently trying to worm their way into Government by stirring up race-hate on the streets of Britain. Her patience, always a finite thing, breaks.

"The thing is, Home Secretary-"

"I'm not the Home Secretary any more!" he impatiently cuts her off.

Ros takes a deep, cleansing breath before saying anything she may come to regret. Once the anger in her has simmered back down, she continues as though no interruption occurred in the first place.

"The thing is, Home Secretary, while you're busy getting your jollies off of whatever it is you do in those places, we have people out in the field risking their necks to make your job that little bit easier. You, William Carson, are the Home Secretary, the public expect you to have this situation under control, so you better get out there, do your job and get back into Government before our friends on the right snatch it from you."

The room falls into a contemplative silence as each person present takes in what Ros has said, all eyes turning to the Home Secretary. He assiduously avoids them by focusing on the glass in his hands.

"I don't see what it is you expect me to do," he finally replies. "You're looking at me now, as if I can just wave a magic wand and banish these thugs back to the rocks from which they crawled under. You don't understand, the English Nationalist Party is streets ahead of us in the opinion polls, they're telling the electorate whatever it is the electorate wants to hear and they're presenting themselves as the only legitimate alternative vote – very successfully, I might add. To compound that, you and I may know they are hand in hand with the paramilitaries calling themselves the English Defence Association. But, what we lack is proof. Until we can prove it, and discredit them publicly, we are … how shall I put it … screwed."

Although dismay tugs at Ros's chest, Harry doesn't look in the least bit despondent. He's rather contemplative and calm, all of a sudden.

"You let us worry about the proof, Home Secretary," he finally states. "We need you to rally your party, orchestrate your election campaign – do a deal with the opposition if you must, so that you're running on a joint ticket and form a coalition – just get the people back on your side and away from the far right. Just do it. To help you do it, I'm giving you Ros Myers. My own Section Chief to facilitate the campaign, organise your security and to travel with you around the country as the campaign unfolds."

Another silence, this time broken by Ruth.

"I've been doing some research, Home Secretary," she speaks gently, keeping her intrusion into the proceedings as discreet as possible. "I suggest you begin the renewed party campaign in Birmingham at the Mosque of Imam Atallah. He's a known liberal, very moderate cleric. He's taken in extremists and proved able to rehabilitate them without taking away their faith completely. He welcomes new converts, too. But no one minds about that. What's important is that he's a moderate, a leading cleric and someone who can show the nation we are standing shoulder to shoulder."

Finally, William Carson, former Home Secretary, is looking them each in the eye. Early signs of an electoral fight back, like the first blossoms of spring after a harsh winter. "Very well," he resolutely replies. "Like the captain of the Titanic, I will go down with my ship." Not quite so promising after all, but, it's a start. Ros's lip twitches in approval.

* * *

It's that point in the summer when dusk seems to last half the normal night. Lucas looks up at the slowly fading sky, turning an increasingly inky blue. London winds to a close, or as near to a close as London ever gets. It is quiet, though. The car park of the pub is empty – not yet late enough for the night time drinkers to show their faces. A weather beaten sign above the entrance reads: "The Bear and Ragged Staff". He has to admit, however, that meeting his Asset here was a lot better than meeting him at a football ground.

Finally, the man makes an appearance. Lucas remains where he is, letting the other man do the approaching. They reach a level, but the Asset barely pauses to exchange pleasantries. "Get yourself down Brixton High Street," he says, face partially obscured by an American baseball hat. "Something major's kicking off down there, tonight."

"Wait!" Lucas calls after him, making to follow.

"Dunno what it is," the man calls back. "But you don't want to miss it, I bet."

He grins, turns a corner and is swallowed by the dusky side streets just beyond the entrance to the car park. Cryptic bastard. Lucas hadn't expected it from these people. The Russians, and their chess fixations, yes. But not thugs from London's East End. Predicting another long night, he sets off for the nearest taxi rank. Brixton it is. However, as he steps out on to the pavement, his Asset rejoins him, jumping out from a shop awning and scaring the life out him in the process.

"Do that again and I'll shoot you," Lucas warns, glowering his best at the idiot.

"All right," he retorts, "Calm down. I thought you might like to know, something big is happening in Birmingham, too-"

"Well, I'm not going to make it to Birmingham tonight, am I?"

The Asset laughs. "Dick head. I mean it's happening soon. Keep an ear out for the name Carl Winters. That's all I can say for now, but I'll get more for you. Don't you worry. Love the haircut, by the way. Suits you, sir."

Lucas ignores him. Not that he has much chance to reply again, anyway. Off the Asset runs, back to root out more titbits for him from wherever he finds it. If it all checks out, he gets his pay into a special bank account. They both know the score by now.

By the time he reaches Brixton high street, it is dark fully. A sickle moon just visible between the tower blocks and buildings, but not a star to be seen in this light polluted city. It's warm and balmy, the shortest of walks leaving him hot and uncomfortable. He looks the streets up and down, finding them mostly empty. Only the distant sounds of wailing sirens, gangs of singing youths and car doors slamming can be heard. Nothing new. Nothing out of the ordinary. He scratches his head, the sharp little bristles of unusually short hair stinging the place beneath his finger nails, and he wonders what to do next.

Unwilling to give up the ghost, he ventures further down the street. Takes a left, passing a group of Policemen lounging in the back of their van, doors thrown open to admit a non-existent breeze. Their radios crackle, the unwelcome sound of them being called into action. Lucas ignores them, carries on towards the square where the sound of raised voices grows ever louder.

He turns another corner, and the sight that greets him stops him in his tracks. Gangs of youths are storming down the streets, seconds later, the sound of smashing glass as windows are broken. A bright orange flare streaks across the dark sky, a petrol bomb thrown into a Halal butcher. He tries to retreat to a safer distance to try and gage what's going on, but his path back the way he came is blocked by lines of armoured Policemen who seemed to have materialised from thin air. He tries the side streets, but finds them now full of marching men, storming the town centre as they rampage through the streets. The flashes of pink and orange flame, followed by the boom of an explosion increases in frequency as Lucas tries to find shelter from the storm about to break. But everywhere he looks, everywhere he turns to, he is either greeted by demonstrators, or lines of armed Policemen, who probably think he's one of the mob.

He moves towards the pavement, getting well out of the road. The sound of policemen battering their truncheons off their perspex shields fills the air, a warning of an advance in which all in their path will be trampled. He doesn't have much time, and he has no where to go beside the centre of the clash. He freezes and waits for the meleé to begin.


	4. Between Iraq and a Hard Place

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your feedback means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply and I own none of this. Thank you again for reading; reviews would be welcome. **Strong language used in places, so please be advised.**

* * *

**Chapter Four: Between Iraq and a Hard Place**

Still rooted to the spot, Lucas looks one way and then the other. To the right, the mob continue their assault; to the left, the Police prepare to charge them down and he's still stuck in the middle. He takes a moment – a moment more than he can spare – to let the panic subside and for the training to take over. The street is lined with businesses, blocks separated with narrow side streets used to house bins and provide tight-squeeze illegal parking spaces in the pedestrianized zone of the main thoroughfare. He looks at the nearest one, blocked by a Volkswagen. It's his best bet, even if it means running through the heart of this no-man's-land between the police and rioters.

With just a cautionary glance either way, he runs full pelt through the volley of missiles now raining down on the Police lines, blocking his ears to the sounds of mini explosions from the petrol bombs that hit the tarmac. The flames add to the stifling night, a wall of heat that makes him dizzy, the petrol fumes bringing adding a hint of nausea to the already heady mix of nerves and adrenaline. He's hit in the stomach by a flying rock, must dodge small puddles of fire from the Molotov cocktails that take hold against the hot tar of the roads. The Volkswagen's wing mirrors touch the buildings on either side, completely blocking the alley, necessitating a jump up on to the bonnet, another leap onto the roof before jumping down via the boot. The alarm wails out as soon as his booted foot hits the metal, but no one hears it above the din of the riot happening just yards away.

Back in a place of relative safety, Lucas doubles over, gasping for clean air after rushing through the fog of petrol fumes and the dry heat of the flames. The name given to him by the Asset: Carl Winters. It comes back to him in a rush, even though it means nothing to him. Something happening in Birmingham, as well. Sometimes, he hates his Assets. Cryptic bastards. However, returning to the present moment, he sees the thing he was hoping to see all along and finally, something goes right for him. A fire escape, a set of metal stairs leading up to the top of the building on his left.

As he ascends the fire stairs, he pulls a mobile phone out of his jacket pocket and scrolls through the inventory of numbers. Pausing at Ros's name, he waits until he reaches the roof and he has his breath back. He didn't want her thinking he was a heavy-breathing pervert. When he does call, she answers as if he'd woken her.

"Myers," the brusque, heavy voice intones in his ear. Just "Myers", he guesses that it's all that needs saying in Ros's case.

"Ros, it's me – Lucas," he answers as though expecting a fanfare from the other end. "Listen, I've been led into a riot in the middle of Brixton by my Asset-"

"Are you all right?" she cuts across him, no more sleep in her voice now. "Where are you? Do you want me to come and get you?"

"No, I managed to get away. But listen, the Asset told me to look out for a man by the name of Carl Winters," he pauses, letting her memorise the name.

She repeats it back to him with the promise of getting Ruth on the case at the earliest opportunity. Knowing Ros as he does and, not to mention Ruth, she probably means as soon as this call ends. In the background, he can hear the muffled sound of a television flaring into life, channels being hopped until BBC News is found. The news reader's distant voice chirrups the latest, live from the scene to the accompaniment of a cursing Ros.

"Jesus, Lucas, are you sure?" she asks. But, without waiting for an answer, she continues: "Did you get anything else from the Asset?"

He thinks for a moment, after becoming distracted by the scene playing out in the streets below him. "Yes, something big is happening in Birmingham tomorrow. Bastard didn't say what; gave no hint and I didn't have time to push it."

"Birmingham," she echoes.

He knows what is in her mind: the Home Secretary and she will be taking part in public engagements in that city at that time.

"Keep Home Secretary Carson close to you, Ros," he advises, even though she barely needs telling. "Don't take your eye off him for a second and probably best not to say anything, either."

As he speaks, the rioters at the far end of the street go into retreat and leave behind just a few stragglers to bear the brunt of the Police charge. Despite his hope that the disturbance is fizzling out, he's not naïve, he didn't just sail down the Thames on a banana boat.

"I'm on it, Lucas. Don't worry about it, just get yourself out of there. No heroics against that lot; you hear me?"

He sighs inwardly. "I hear you," he dutifully replies.

Seeing only a handful of stragglers, the emboldened Police finally make a charge. The stragglers make a run for it, leading the Police straight into an ambush where the full force of the crowds lie in wait, just out of sight down the side streets of Brixton. It was a scene from a comedy of errors.

The call ends with a whispered 'good luck' and a meaningful pause. Alone, watching the pandemonium from above, Lucas withdraws. There is nothing he can do tonight, the Police and the rioters lock horns, and no one can separate them now, but at least it's cleared his path out of the immediate danger zone. He descends the iron fire escape, footsteps echoing in the strange, post-riot stillness of the night, and emerges in the same alleyway, still blocked by a Volkswagen whose siren still wails into the night.

"For fuck's sake!"

A strong cockney voice joins the din. Lucas stops immediately, pressing himself against the rails and hunkering down. He holds his breath as a large man appears, car keys in hand. Douglas Simpson, leader of the English Nationalist Party, is not a happy man as he continues his rant at a second, unseen, companion. Lucas takes out his phone and switches on the camera, filming as he silently retreats back up the iron steps.

"Some fucker's bloody jumped on it, look. Dirty great footprints all over the paintwork."

Lucas grins, all feelings of guilt over damage to personal property erased.

"You got to admit, Dougie, good work from the lads tonight," says the invisible companion.

Lucas keeps filming, even as he reaches the top of the steps, hoping beyond hope his phone's camera is sensitive enough to pick it all up.

"Yeah, but just wait till I get my hands on the cunt who did this to me motor."

Most un-parliamentary language, Lucas thinks to himself. He suppresses the urge to laugh, and hauls himself up to the safety of the rooftops before they have a chance to spot him. The alarm falls silent, moments later an engine revs into life and two car doors slam in tandem. Soon, the coast will be perfectly clear for his final escape.

* * *

"Charming fellow," Harry observes as the playback finishes. He spins his chair around to face the others in the meeting room with him. Ruth, as always, at his right hand side. Lucas perched on the edge of the table, chewing thoughtfully on a fingernail, coiled and tense as though ready to spring into action at the sound of a whistle. Harry puts it down to residual adrenaline from a night of street violence and lets it slide without comment. Jo and Ben sit opposite one another, each with clearly marked papers spread out in front of them. Ros, however, is already absent, travelling with the Home Secretary to Birmingham. The electoral fight back beginning in earnest.

"Kind've funny, though," Ben remarks. "Well played, Lucas."

Lucas lets out a snort of laughter. "How was I supposed to know it was his bloody car?"

"Remember to bring a crow-bar next time," Jo grins. "See how that suits his precious motor."

Mild-mannered Malcolm blanches, but Lucas, Ben and Jo all stifle laughter. It's enough for Lucas to finally relax and take his seat and withdraw his suffering index finger from between his teeth. Harry, however, is keen to reign the team back in, keeping them focused on the task at hand before the meeting descends into a comedic slanging match.

"Well, that's something for us to go on," he states firmly. "Ben, make sure Lucas's footage gets out into the public domain. It still doesn't prove anything, but it does help discredit the man."

The banter atrophies into seriousness once more, with Ruth giving a small, unobtrusive cough to signify her entrance into the debate. "We know how Simpson is going to rationalise this," she says. "If anyone asks what he meant by "the lads did well," he's not going to turn around and say he meant the rioting thugs. He'll just say he meant the Police. I still need to get close to Simpson, to find out more. I still need to go under-cover."

Harry had hoped that Lucas's evidence would negate the need for Ruth to go out in the field. He had almost prayed for it, except he's never exactly been the praying kind. But there's no denying that she is right. The footage showed Simpson in a suspect place at a suspect time and saying suspect things.

He raises a wan smile, turning his placid gaze to Ruth. "I know, I know," he says, emphasising the point and eliciting a smile from Ruth. Normally, he'd be hoopla over it, but now all he feels is gnawing dread. "Your day will come, Ruth. Have no fear."

To steer the conversation away from Ruth's stint in the field, Jo steps in. "What about Winters, though?" she asks, glancing down the table at Ruth. "I think we need to prioritise him; find out all we can about Carl Winters. If Lucas's Asset is right, he's central to a lot of what's going on right now."

Harry feels as though he's been thrown a lifeline. "Jo's right, Ruth. Get to work on this Carl Winters. Find out who he is, who he's working for and what's driving him. So far these bastards have been one step ahead of us and it's high time we caught up before they start making us look like some eastern European republic stuck in a 1980s time warp."

Ruth gives a curt nod. "Then there's the Birmingham intel Lucas got," she adds. "Anyone have any ideas about that?"

Silence. Each agent looks to the other, but no one has anything to offer.

"This is just bloody wonderful," Harry grumbles. "They're so far ahead they may as well be the ones bugging us."

Malcolm looks up, a fleeting frown betraying his irritation. "We're doing the best we can, given the patchy intel we have to go on so far, Harry," he points out. "I will be in contact with Ros throughout the day; anything that happens, we'll be the first to know through her."

Harry's building temper suddenly flat lines midway through its ascent. "I know that, Malcolm. But I want everyone working on this one now; this takes priority-"

"And of course it would help if I was able to get that assistant," Malcolm interjects.

Harry's gaze darts to the lower end of the table, to where an ashen Malcolm reposes. "Yes, Malcolm," he replies, resignedly. He sincerely hopes his old war-horse isn't getting any funny ideas about retirement. However, there's no mistaking how tired he looks, and there's no denying the mounting pressure the whole team are coming under. He evens out his flaring frustration, but it's Lucas who rides in to the rescue.

"We are looking, Malcolm," he assures him. "In fact, I think I have someone in mind. But let me get him checked out first."

Lucas leaves it at that. Harry goes to probe further, but thinks better of it. "Well, I trust Lucas has the matter in hand then," he adds, managing to red flash a smile at his Senior Case Officer. I do trust you, Lucas, no matter what you think – is what he really wants to say. Instead, the meeting comes to an end. Lucas, Ben, Jo and Malcolm file out and back to their respective desks, back into the unfathomable depths of the world of espionage. Leaving Harry and Ruth just a few precious moments together, but he must reach out and place a gentle hand on her arm to stop her leaving with the others.

She drops the papers she had scooped up off the table. "There's something else, Harry?" she asks, careful to keep her expression neutral. This really could just be about work.

"Come into my Office," he suggests, leading the way.

Through the short journey across the Grid, several pairs of curious eyes following their progress; Jo's chief among them. Wide-eyed and hopeful, for a moment Harry thinks she may even have winked at him. Somewhere, from the depths of his memory, a recollection stirs gently, before rushing at him.

"Do you remember Zaf Younis?" he asks, holding open his Office door for her to step through. Zaf's is another name in the long litany of deaths on active service, tortured to death by a group calling themselves the Redbacks, not long after Ruth had been forced to flee the country.

Of course she remembered him, and his promise of a smile, should they ever have accidentally met in the street by chance.

"Yes, I remember Zaf," she replies, giving him a curious look as she settled into the seat opposite his desk.

Harry grins. "He was running a book on us," he informs her. "I overheard Jo talking about it, once."

Ruth blushes, a hue matching her maroon dress. Did she honestly think no one had noticed them?

"Really?" she laughs.

Harry nods, his smile fading at the memory. "I think Jo's taken over the running of it," he states, perking back up again. "I hope so anyway. I'd like to even out the odds a little bit. Wouldn't you?"

Her coyness dissipates, giving way to a broad smile. "Have you, er, got anything in mind, then?"

"When this is all over," he states, then pulls up short. 'This' will never be over. Because as soon as 'this' is over, then 'something else' will be just around the corner waiting to take the place of 'this'. He draws a deep breath and reclines in his seat. The time for procrastination is over. "No, I mean when you've returned from your jaunt into the field, I mean. When that's over, how about we go to dinner again? A treat, just for you."

Her smile is easy and natural. "Yes," she replies, blushing and flustered again. "Yes, I'd like that very much, Harry."

Harry is still thoughtful. "You know, this is becoming almost a regular thing," he observes, testing the waters a little further.

She nods. "You could call it that," she replies, leading him a little further down the course of the conversation. "A regular thing, I mean. I rather like it, as it happens. I could definitely get used to it."

The odds even themselves out. Who knows, one day they may even be in his favour.

"Thank you, Ruth," he says, finally. "Take care, now."

She's only going out on to the Grid, but he always feels compelled to say it. He watches as she goes, detecting a visible spring in her step. However, his moment of personal glory is soon over, an all too fleeting moment of happiness that punctures the surface of the intensity of his work-a-day duties. He lifts the receiver of the telephone on his desk, checks the time on his wrist watch, and jabs at the numbers on the dial.

* * *

After a morning spent hobnobbing with silver tongued council leaders and representatives, Ros's temper is simmering dangerously close to the surface. Even her mobile phone chiming to life inside her breast pocket, a common enough event, is plenty to bring on a mini-eruption. Muffling her curse as a cough, she answers and steps away from the Home Secretary, who's every move she had shadowed that day.

"Harry," she greets her boss, beginning to feel a little more enthusiastic.

While Harry disgorged the contents of the morning team meeting, she let her eye rove over the scene in front of her. They were outside Birmingham City Hall, now. The fine weather has brought out the populace and there's an abundance of babies for the Home Secretary to kiss, a sea of hands to shake and sentried ranks of photographers to capture every flesh-pressing moment in technicolour glory forever more. Overall, it is a success. A positive, hands-on image to splash across the next day's press.

"Yes, I know, Harry. Lucas told me last night; I haven't let Carson out of my sight," she speaks softly, despite the din of the crowds. Then she chokes, suddenly covering her mouth with her hand for a moment, until the urge to laugh hysterically has passed. "He did what to Simpson's car? You're joking!"

The call ends, her mood restored in time for a closed meeting between Home Secretary Carson and the local leading light of moderate Islamism in Birmingham – Imam Atallah. They make their way through the crowds of on-lookers and local campaigners towards the Mosque. What would be a ten-minute walk is dragged out for an hour. All around her, everything is as it should be. However, not for one minute does Ros drop her guard. She clocks everyone and everything, all the way up to the Mosque itself.

Inside, the Imam is waiting for them. He's dressed all in white, ceremonial for the grand occasion. He and the Home Secretary pose for pictures outside the walls, plenty of snaps to show community unity between Muslim and non-Muslin alike. All good stuff for morale, but leaving Ros on tenterhooks. At all times, Carson, his larger than life public persona rising effortlessly to the fore, is in her sight. He would be an easy target; an understandable target. Another moderate out of the way, like pulling teeth.

The photo opportunity over, and they return to the Mosque. Out of the back door, Ros finds herself in an undeniably serene garden. A small water feature bubbles quietly in the middle of an emerald lawn. Fat bees hover over equally fat, garish blossom. There's a bench by the wall, overlooking the scene where Carson and Imam Atallah sit and chew the fat.

"Please, meet some of our recent converts," says the Imam, gesturing to the door. "I make sure the converts come to us, here. There are radical places that prey on young blood, but they must get passed me, first."

Right on cue, a small trail of young men emerge from the door – just as things had been choreographed. Ros stands off, discreetly noting everything that happens. The names of the young converts are filed in her mind as they introduce themselves to William Carson, their once and future Home Secretary. Once this little meet and greet is over, it's time for another walkabout with the Imam and the Home Secretary.

"Of course, Iraq and Afghanistan is still a thorny issue for many people – not just the Muslims," the Home Secretary points out as they make their way to the front of the building. "Many people are angered by what we're doing there, and the lives wasted. But, I hope that you will work with us to bring this war to a close and to help the local community come to terms with what has happened."

The Imam laughs. "It's like I always say: the Government is caught between Iraq and a hard place!" He laughs raucously at his own joke, and Ros rolls her eyes as she follows the conversation.

They emerge from the front gates, where the people linger, even though the press have now vanished. Ros sincerely hopes they're already concocting lovely headlines for tomorrow's front pages, maybe even knocking the previous night's rioting off the top-spot. They round the corner, and are met with a hail of bullets.

Ros's reactions are swift. She leaps on top of the Home Secretary, pulling him to the ground and shielding him with her own body. The people, still gathered in crowds by the gates of the Mosque, scream in terror, dispersing like so many frightened birds. The burst of gunfire is swift, sharp and brief; over before anyone can process what has happened.

"Shit, Carson, are you all right?" Ros asks, her heart hammering furiously against her ribs. Slowly, she begins to remove herself from atop the flushed Home Secretary.

He stands slowly, ashen faced and visibly trembling. Slowly, he nods. "Unhurt," he replies, his eyes glazed with shock begin to dart left and right. "The Imam?" he asks. "Where's the Imam?"

Ros sees the Imam immediately. He had tried to duck for cover behind a car, but fallen short. Three open bullet wounds to his chest and another in the head. Blood trickles in rivulets from all gaping holes, neat and precise where the bullets entered. The exit wounds, she knows, will be vicious. All this time, she was guarding the wrong target. Slowly, she kneels at the Imam's side and feels for the pulse she already knows is not there.

She swallows against the dryness of her throat. "Dead," she says, the sound lost in the small breeze that sweeps across the rapidly emptying streets.


	5. Miss Jenkins

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Usual disclaimers apply; I own none of this. Thanks again, and please review if you have a moment.

* * *

**Chapter Four: Miss Jenkins**

The broadsheet folds; the front page image of the dead Imam doubling back on itself to reveal Harry's inscrutable face where the stark headlines once stood. He betrays his rising temper as he slaps the paper down; failing to register Ruth's responding flinch as he goes. Her gaze slips sideways, an almost apologetic gesture as she fumbles with the pages inside her file. Where Harry hardens, Ruth makes up the emotional shortfall with a softening smile and a hand placed gently on his arm, stilling any more outbursts. 'It's all right,' she seems to say, 'it will be all right, so long as we have you.'

Finally, Ruth does speak.

"Did you see the Home Sec on the Breakfast news, this morning?"

Even in this dark hour, Harry has to admit that it had been a splendid performance. Carson's first-hand experience of death on the streets of Birmingham seems to have brought about a great sea-change, a full fathom five transmogrification; delivering a diatribe against the assassins and terrorists and all the scum that line the streets in wait for the race war to come, with so much panache and aplomb it made Harry almost smile again.

"Yes, I thought he did rather well," is his bald reply.

He sits back in his seat, gaze fixed through the glass panels of his office at the empty Grid. Blank-faced monitors, glimmering dully in the monochrome lights, wink back at him as he slides down into the depths of his own private thoughts. He goes over the events as Ros related them late the previous night. A mental step-by-step walkthrough of exactly what happened before the Imam was murdered. He has it all fixed in his mind's eye: a map with Ros, the Home Sec and the Imam all marked in red. Then come the photographers, hand-picked by MI5 to make sure they got the right kind of headlines, forming a semi-circle around the red dots. There would be no place for an assassin to hide among them, given the stark contrast between a gun and a camera. The people all milling around – surely there would have been a hue and a cry much sooner if a gunman had appeared in their midst? A shot as perfect as that would take time to line up and mark. He adds his theories up, but all sense seems to be subtracted and nothing adds up. He pauses to bury his face in his hand.

On the opposite side of his desk, Ruth decides it's time to take his mind off the murdered Imam.

"Today's the day," she points out with an affected levity. "It's been years since I was out in the field."

But, the smile on her face fades away as her efforts backfire and she chides herself for mentioning it; one thoughtless comment to ratchet up Harry's anxiety levels. He raises his face from his hands, wearing an expression like a punctured football.

"Ruth," he gravely intones, "what will it take for you to never mention that to me ever again?"

Set on a course, Ruth finds she is too English to just give up. "Oh, come on, Harry," she replies, trying to jolly a little enthusiasm from him. "Just think of it as making an inroad. One step at a time, we'll penetrate the inner sanctum of the English Nationalists Party and destroy them from within. Just like we always do. It's no different to any other Op."

He pauses for a moment, looking directly at her; committing every part of her to memory. "Except, if this Op goes wrong," he replies, "there's a danger I may never see you walk through those doors again."

Harry doesn't notice the soundless glide of the pods at the far end of the Grid as they disgorge Lucas North into their midst. He sees the shadows grow dense and the man himself materialise, affording him and Ruth a wave of greeting as he makes a bee-line for the kitchen. Lucas is still making up for eight years of Russian prison tea and, according to his own calculations, he still has some way to go. Ruth waits for the rush of water into kettle to inform her of their privacy, before continuing.

"I'm not Helen," she states gently, looking him directly in the eye for assurance. She has guessed right and Harry pales a little further at the mention of the name; Ruth detects the involuntary, almost imperceptible shudder of horror in him as he turns to look the other way.

Plunged head first into a vat of boiling fat, Helen had become a unique point of horror – even in his personal History; in itself, a gore strewn, melting-pot of violence, death and betrayal. And the past is a foreign country – one that'll confiscate your passport, fit you up for drug-running and never let you go again, if you spend too much time there. Harry decides to leave while he still can.

"Ruth, I-"

But what it is exactly is cut off as Lucas lets himself in.

"Morning!" he chimes over Harry's reply, blissfully unaware of what he's walked in on. "Fancy a cuppa?"

Harry whirls around in his seat, glaring daggers at his Senior Case Officer. "Unless this vaunted cuppa is going to end national terrorism, win an election and solve a murder; No, I bloody well do not want it. Thanks for asking."

Ruth shoots him a warning look. "Harry!"

Lucas has already gone into retreat. Stricken at having inadvertently poked the sleeping lion, he leaves nothing but the echo of his stammering apologies hanging limp in the air.

"And will you bloody well knock!" Harry berates Lucas's retreating back, for good measure.

He turns back to Ruth, who returns his glance with an expression like a brick wall. Her normally skittish nerves have hardened and now she silently dares him to start on her. Hard glare; set jaw, unblinking and unflinching in the face of the ravenous Pearce temper.

"That," she states firmly, "was not necessary, Harry. Not necessary at all."

Without further ado, she gathers up her papers and belongings, slinging her bag over her shoulder she departs without another word. He watches her leave while his stomach sinks into his shoes, taking his heart with it. She doesn't look back as she crosses the Grid, to where Lucas now sits soothing his nerves. He tries to deny it, but a small pang of jealousy teases the frayed ends of his temper as her hand comes to rest on the other man's shoulder, as she leans down to whisper something in his ear. He leans forward, slams the door shut and cocoons himself in his own private fug of bureaucracy. For Harry Pearce, this day will not end soon enough.

* * *

The unmarked van slowly meanders up the side street, the driver carefully navigating the detritus that has built up there and comes to a stop once it's drawn parallel with the back gate of number thirty-four. In the passenger seat, a girl with close cropped blond hair turns to the driver, her wide, blue eyes soft with empathy.

"Lucas … I …" she says, treading softly and cautiously, like a bare-footed child through a patch of nettles. "Ruth told me what happened earlier," she finally spills.

Lucas turns the key in the ignition, shutting off the engine and leaving them in silence, at last. Now stationary, he returns her look with a sigh.

His brow creases into an expression of helpless remorse. "It's like being tasered," he replies, remembering all too well an unpleasant incident in Highgate Cemetery involving a furious Ros and a stun gun. All that after he'd just spoken to his ex-wife for the first time in the best part of a decade. His focus slides into the middle distance as he attempts to articulate the feeling of unwittingly wandering into one of Harry's storms. "You think you've gone in there to spread a bit of early morning cheer … to cast a little ray of sunshine into the man's dark little world … and them bam! You're hit with this volcanic blast of hell fire and fury."

Jo nods slowly in agreement. "We've all been there, Lucas. You're not alone."

He turns fully to look at her properly. Deep in those eyes, he can see empathy emanating from deeply rooted first-hand experience of Harry's temper. It's something only members of Section D can relate to and thinks a support group may be the order of the day. However, he then remembers Ruth and averts his gaze towards the house they have drawn up outside.

"You know it's because of all this, don't you?" he says, looking back at Jo.

"Oh yeah, it's been coming on for years. On again, off again," she replies with a smile. "I think it's quite sweet, actually."

His body stiffens, a shudder suppressed at the thoughts and images going through his head. Gone is the waterboarding; in its place, a naked Harry Pearce on his notional wedding night. Why his imagination had taken on such vivid inventions, he could not answer.

"So, where's Ros today, then?" he asks, U-turning the entire conversation.

Jo barely notices as she swings open the passenger door. "She's joined the Home Sec out in Bermondsey. They're electioneering. That's the story, at any rate."

That's good, he thinks to himself. Don't let the assassination of the Imam derail the election campaign; business as usual. On that note, he himself alights from the van and meets Jo again round the back. A quick glance over his shoulder to make sure the coast is clear and he signals with a sharp rap on the metal doors. They open at once, revealing Malcolm in a tweed flat cap and navy cagoule. He looks as if he's going bird watching. He is in his element, however, surrounded by listening equipment; machinery that picks up movement, sound and light imperceptible to the human eye shifts of the light. Where Malcolm goes, nowhere is off limits, nothing is private. Lucas thinks it's only a matter of time before the man comes up with some dazzlingly simple way of reading people's actual thoughts and getting them on film, to boot.

"We're ready," he states, moving to the side and allowing Jo and Lucas access to the van's interior. "Simpson and the English Nationalists have just had number thirty-two's door slammed in their faces, so they should be heading over to Ruth around about now…"

* * *

The knock at her door still comes as a surprise, even though she watched the delegation tramping up the garden path. Ruth glances around the room, checking the places where Lucas and Ros have concealed cameras and bugs. It's as though she expects a boom mic has been accidentally left in plain sight, or an entire film crew is lurking behind the sofa. She knows the Section Head and the Senior Case Officer are second to none, but these last minute nerves trample her confidence in fourteen hole Doc Martens. Satisfied that everything is as it should be, she flits into the kitchen and puts the kettle on.

"This is it, Malcolm," she intones, and calls out clearly to the door: "Just coming!"

"Good luck, Ruth," replies Malcolm, a voice in her head.

She pauses by the door, smoothing down her skirt for a second and taking a deep breath. 'My name is Leanne Jenkins,' she thinks to herself. Remembering the first line of her legend always helped the rest to follow on smoothly. She silently repeats it one more time: my name is Leanne Jenkins.

On the opposite side of the door, three men wait. Two stand behind the larger man, all three in dark, pin-striped suits. Each jacket has pinned to it a large, red, white and blue rosette with the initials "E.N.P" emblazoned in gold in the centre. Ruth arranges her expression into one of blank neutrality as she looks at each man in turn, mentally washing away all traces of recognition. The man in front smiles and extends a hand.

"Afternoon, Madam. My name is Douglas Simpson; leader of the English Nationalist Party and I wondered if I might have a minute of your time? Can I come in?"

"Okay, Ruth, hold steady. Find out who the others are, first," Lucas's voice whispers low, deep in her ear as if someone might over-hear him. She is methodical in not responding in any way to these disembodied voices in her ear, but nonetheless, it was always a strange experience.

"Oh!" she replies, looking at Simpson. "Look, I'm not sure. I'm new around here; only just moved in and I don't really know anybody and my husband's just died-"

"Forgive me, Madam; I'm sorry for your loss," Simpson is quick to make up for his misstep. "As I said, my name's Douglas Simpson, the party leader. And this, is John Clements, our Policy Advisor. This, is Alan Reynolds, our Campaign Coordinator. And, here's our ID cards. You're perfectly safe, Madam."

Ruth lets her shoulders relax and her smile become more natural as she takes the proffered ID cards and holds the up in front of the minute, concealed camera discreetly tucked away under the collar of her polo neck shirt. All the while, Lucas instructs further.

"Got it, Ruth. Now take a close look at the second … Great stuff … now the third. Got it. Thanks Ruth."

There was no sign of a Carl Winters among them. Not that Ruth had expected such an early breakthrough, but if she played her cards right at this meeting, she could well be on the way.

"Come in," she says, looking up at the three burly men now lumbering into 'her' house. "Can I make you a cup of tea?" she asks as they shrug off their light summer jackets.

They each pause, looking from one to the other in mild surprise. "Yeah, all right," they chorus.

"Don't be too surprised, Ruth. They've had several doors slammed in their faces all down this street. I think your act of kindness as won them over all ready!"

She wishes she could answer Lucas, even if only to tell him to pipe down. It unnerved her to have his voice in her ear while others were around. It is something she doesn't think she could ever quite get used to. However, as she busied herself with the tea, the mundanity of the task allowed her to focus her mind. It was with a steady hand, therefore, that she carries a laden tray back into her small living room, careful to step over the toys that had been strewn about the floor.

"Sorry about the mess, gents," she says, carefully lowering the tray onto the table.

Simpson, already sat on the sofa with his colleagues, reaches up to help her. "Allow me," he says, taking over the task in an act of political chivalry. "So, Miss…?" he pauses, inviting her to give her name.

"Jenkins," she replies, sitting in an armchair close to the sofa. "Leanne Jenkins."

She lies without missing a beat and she knows the rest will come easily, now.

"Tell me, Miss Jenkins, are you familiar with the English Nationalist Paty?"

Ruth pauses again, getting her false ethos straight in her head. "Yes I have, actually," she finally replies. "I agree with most of what you're saying. You see, my son and I, we moved here after my husband was killed in a street attack. You know, the usual story, Asian youths armed with a knife. Even the Police didn't seem bothered and I didn't want to make too much fuss because you know, yourself, how these people travel in packs, looking for revenge. It got too much for me; I just want Ethan to be safe. He's all I've got left, so we came here. Look, if you get in, will you do something about them?"

As she speaks, Ruth fidgets with a loose thread in her skirt, pulling at it, twisting it around her fingers in an act of nervous restlessness as her legend takes over – the real Ruth Evershed becoming side lined. All the while, the three men look back at her through masks of affected sympathy.

Clements leans forward in his seat; Douglas giving him the nod to speak. He is the Policy Advisor, after all. "Our Policy is that these thugs be systematically removed from our streets. We have a 'one-strike-and-you're-out' stance, especially with those who have no business being here in the first place."

"And you're not alone, Miss Jenkins," Simpson interjects. "We've been on the campaign trail for two weeks now and, everywhere we go, we hear stories like yours. Lone women, terrified for their own and their children's safety. Gangs rule these streets; our corrupt Police force are powerless, even disinclined, to stop them. Do you remember the Brixton Riots, Miss Jenkins? I do. We all do. It's been happening for years: first the blacks and now the Islamists are calling all the shots. They terrorise us, beat us, kill our loved ones; and we're not even allowed to raise a voice in protest. The English Nationalist Party will bring an end to all that. But, we need people like you to come and join us in our campaign."

A voice belonging to Lucas North urges her to hold back; play her hand cautiously. Slow and steady wins the race. She continues to let her gaze dart between all three of the men, still making sure her outward body language is that of doubt and uncertainty.

"The thing is, you see," she pipes up, flateringly. "This violence; the Muslim guy –" she pauses, pretending she cannot think of the right name, "-that Imam guy, that sort of violence I don't like. I'm all for deportation, Mister Simpson. But I don't believe in assassination, or burning temples. I can't get involved in that."

Simpson smiles, runs a hand through his thick, greying hair. His manner ingratiating, almost casually so. "That's nothing to do with the English Nationalist Party, Miss Jenkins," he replies smoothly. Ruth swears she hears Lucas suppress a laugh. "Look, my car was vandalised during the recent riots. Whether it was Islamists hell bent on revenge, or out of control members of the English Defence Association, I can't say for sure-" actually, it was Lucas North, Senior Case Officer for Section D. Ruth hides her smirk quickly as Simpson continues: "we are all suffering because of these hot heads. But we're legitimate Politicians and no one has anything to fear from us."

He says it all with a straight face, yet Ruth knows they still can't pin anything definite on the man. She needs to get in deeper with him. Casting a quick look at the clock on the wall, she notes the time with relief. "It's three now," she says. "I have to pick Ethan up from school. But leave me your leaflets, please. I will get back to you and I do want to help your campaign. I just need to think things through, if that's all right?"

It is enough. The three men flash brief smiles of victory as Reynolds – the Campaign Coordinator – hands over a number of brightly printed election leaflets. Simpson reaches into his jacket pocket, handing her a small slip of rectangular card. "This is my number, Miss Jenkins," he states, still smiling. "We would love to have you on board. Call in any time, and there's my mobile number, too."

Ruth gives the card a brief look before folding her hand protectively over it. The first meeting over, and she has begun to take root in the party. Not yet a member, but getting closer. Already, her mind races ahead: get access to party offices, copy the hard drives; find out who Carl Winters is. Get the full membership list and see how many of the English Nationalist Party just happen to also be members of the English Defence Association. One step at a time, she reminds herself as she waves the men off from her doorstep.

* * *

A carpet of floral tributes flutter in a soft breeze outside the former Mosque of Imam Atallah. It spreads from the front gates of the building, smothers the pavements all around the perimeter fence. A spiritual leader has met his violent death, like so many great, non-violent spiritual leaders before him. The Imam has taken his place on that sad pantheon. Now, his flock are left to pick up the pieces. They move like wraiths among the gaudy blossom, shrouded in grief with consoling arms around each other's shoulders. Unseen tears drip onto soft, yielding petals like the rain. They will blossom amidst the raw grief.

Two men stand on the periphery, looking on in bewildered sadness and lost in their private thoughts for a long time. The sun shines down on them, their heads bent to the broad afternoon light; a stark contrast to their inner-turmoil. In turn, they each look up and their eyes meet across the sea of flowers, recognition flares in their eyes and they walk towards each other, careful not to step on any of the tributes.

"Salaam, Brother Abdul Kareem," says the first man.

"Salaam, Brother Ahmed," replies Kareem, shielding his pale grey eyes from the blazing sun. "Imam Atallah was a father to me. When my own family turned their backs on me, I had nowhere to go, nowhere to turn. Now he is slain by the infidels of the English Defence Association and our bedrock is gone."

He remembers the conversation he once had with Imam Atallah in the gardens behind the Mosque. The measured tones; the carefully weighted words of advice and comfort. His warnings against the dangers of extremism. But for life's bitter ironies!

The other man, Ahmed, is contemplative, even in the face of his grief. "He was a good man; a great leader and figure," he replies at length. "But, he was naïve, Kareem. Very naïve, and you and I both know that well. If we don't act soon, there will be all out war. We need to send a message, a clear message to all these infidels: we will not be hunted like dogs in the street!"

Kareem raises a wan smile, raising a hand in pacification at his friend's increasingly hot tone. "Let us talk, alone. It is dangerous out here."

Side by side, they enter the gates of the Mosque. The back gate, avoiding the places where others have left flowers. Up the side street, they pass a tall woman with a curt, blond bob of hair. Her clothes are immaculate and business like. She does not slow her pace as she draws level with them. They miss her lips forming words almost silent. They miss the brief, penetrating look of her sharp, green eyes as she passes; she does not look back at them any more than they look back at her. She's supposed to be somewhere else, with someone else. They do not recognise her from the day before and then it's too late, anyway. Ros Myers has already passed out of sight. "Bug's in place, Malcolm," she speaks sofly as soon as she is alone again. "Two men entering the Mosque, one a convert. Make sure you get a good listen; it could be something interesting."


	6. All Bets Are Off

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Also, a separate thanks to my Guest reviewers who I can't contact to thank in person. Thanks! Also, I apologise if this is a bit of a filler chapter; it's a pause before the serious action starts.

Usual disclaimers apply and I own none of this.

* * *

**Chapter Six: All Bets Are Off  
**

The house is silent. Ruth gets up from the settee, scratches nervously at her wrist and sits back down again. At a loss for what to do, she goes into the kitchen and boils the kettle for a cup of tea she doesn't really want. As she goes, she flicks the switch on a digital radio sitting on the kitchen countertop to end the grating silence. The kitchen is small, with a connecting door into the living room of the house she does not really live in. But, to keep up appearances, she stays. Her fictional son, however, has been sent to stay with his fictional granny for the approaching weekend.

She hasn't spoken to Harry; not since their last meeting on The Grid. She had berated him for berating Lucas. He had only berated Lucas because she had placed him under a lot of pressure for this very Op. 'Oh, stop blaming yourself, Evershed!' she mentally chides herself. But a residual guilt remains all the same. It's lonely at the top, and that's pretty much where Harry is now, at least where Section D is concerned. The burden is his shoulder alone, so he surely he can be forgiven for losing his temper every so often?

The kettle boils, but Ruth doesn't hear it. She sits behind the kitchen table, instead. There is a telephone attached to the wall, bright red and garish under the naked bulb. Slotted into the join of its plastic body is the card that Douglas Simpson handed to her before he left, earlier that day. But, it's too soon to call him – she told him she would think about it. Instead, she lifts the receiver and calls directory enquiries.

"Hi, I was wondering if you could give me the number for that little Italian place on Broadway?" she asks. 'Of course he can't. He's in a call centre in India,' she mentally reminds herself.

"Sorry, Ma'am. Can you be more specific?" the heavily accented voice on the other end asks, clipped and polite in her momentary act of silliness.

"I know, sorry, my head's away!" she laughs, flushing in the face. "Er, I think it's called Concerto."

Harry will like it there, she thinks, just as she also realises she has nothing to write with or on. She quickly scrabbles inside a drawer, pulling out an eyeliner pencil.

"I have the number here, Ma'am-"

Flustered, Ruth cuts him off. "Just give me a second," she blurts out, desperately searching for anything to write on and then remembers Simpson's card wedged into the phone itself. "Go ahead," she adds, tugging it out.

She copies the number and declines the offer to be put straight through to the restaurant itself. Nor does she hang up. Instead, she jabs the button to make another call and ploughs on before she can suffer a change of heart. Yes, Harry will definitely like a more Continental Restaurant. She remembered from their last date, he wants to do the major European cities while she wanted New York.

"So, that's a table for two; for a Miss Ruth Evershed, at seven-thirty?" the girl on the other end clarifies. Ruth confirms, jotting down the details in eyeliner, still on the back of the business card.

"By the way," Ruth adds before the girl can end the call. "Do you do vintage whiskeys?"

The receptionist answers in the affirmative, reeling off a big list- vintage and malt included- that Ruth barely listens to. The fact that they do them is all she needs to know. It is fate, she thinks. Harry will love it and Continental feels be damned.

Hanging up the phone at last, Ruth allows herself a smile as she reaches for her mobile and scrolls down to Harry's name.

* * *

The bar room is dingy. Walls that were once white are stained a deep brownish yellow; a hangover from the days before the smoking ban, introduced over six years ago. Lucas looks at the wall behind him and nudges aside the framed photograph of a football stadium that hangs there. As he suspects, there is a perfect patch of frame-shaped, virginal white wall paper behind it. Trying not to wrinkle his nose in distaste, he hunkers back over the pint of warm, fizzy piss he's been nursing since he first arrived almost twenty-minutes ago. A tabloid newspaper is open on the table before at the centrefold and he pretends to read.

Meanwhile, the conversation taking place in the booth next to his is just getting interesting. His Asset is in deep conversation with two members of the English Defence Association and the name, Carl Winters, has finally cropped up. He's managed to do it without ostentation, something Lucas inwardly commends him for. However, his nerves prickle as the jukebox flares into life; Oasis threatening to drown out the listening device embedded into his wrist watch. He knows Malcolm has foreseen such obstacles, but he bristles all the same. For one thing, it's making it difficult for him to listen in.

"Winters is at the heart of this," one man says to the other, "but we can't talk here. Too public."

"Is Winters even back yet? Or is he in with Dougie Simpson's lot?"

The heart of what? The music drowns out sections of the conversation and too much is at stake for him to simply extrapolate and fill in the blanks himself.

"Yeah, I think so. Birmingham's gone nuts over that Imam that was hit a few days back; there'll be retaliation for sure."

"Then what?"

Lucas strains against his instinct to look over and see whose talking. But, his brow is already deeply furrowed and he cannot afford to draw attention to himself. He slowly turns the page and inwardly curses the person who put the jukebox on.

"Then, it'll be open season, mate," the third man answers, satisfied and expectant. "Open season on the muzzies at last."

The Asset is still there; right on cue he jumps in with another leading question. But, he over-plays his hand.

"But what, exactly?" he asks, his tone hushed but kindly waiting for a break in the music so Lucas can hear him.

"Not here!" his friend hisses back.

The three men at the table fall silent, a sudden sensation that gives Lucas a frisson of nerves. He can feel their gaze boring into him.

"Is he gonna drink that pint or just stare at it all night?"

Lucas freezes. They are looking at him, but to reach out and down the pint in one would look too ostentatious. Instead, he focusses his attention on the page in front of him.

"Yeah, he's been there for ages. Don't reckon he's Old Bill, do you?"

Lucas is about to make his escape when his Asset chips in. "Don't be a wanker, he's with me. That's Davey; he's sound," he says, jerking his head towards Lucas. "Oi, Davey! Come 'ere, mate."

He avoided the temptation to roll his eyes and decided to make the most of a bad situation. He flipped the pages of the newspaper shut and brought his pint over to the next table. Flashing what he hoped was a casual, friendly smile he offered his free hand to shake.

"I've been waiting all night for him to wise up and make the introductions," he quips, good naturedly. "Davey Smith. How's it going?"

Both men look at his hand as though it may recently have been up someone's arse. Eventually, however, they each in turn reach out shake, introducing themselves as Joe More and Jack Simpkins. The Asset, known to all and sundry as 'Peach', shifts along the bench behind the table, making room for Lucas who slots into place easily.

He looks all three in turn, weighing them up internally. The man on the left, Joe, seems more in the know than the other. He seemed to be the one with information on Carl Winters, but Lucas knows it's far too early to be making indiscreet enquiries this soon on their acquaintance. Meanwhile, the music has stopped and none of the other patrons seem too bothered about setting the jukebox off again.

"I'm surprised Peach here hasn't mentioned you to us before, Davey," Jack states.

Although he's looking at Lucas, it's Peach himself who answers.

"Been waiting for the right time. He's got cred, though, haven't you Davey? He did time out in Russia for helping our lot out over there." He pauses, turning to look back at Lucas who inwardly curses him for revealing too much information. "Show 'em the tats."

Obligingly, Lucas rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. There's not much to see, given that the real 'masterpiece' is on his back, but it's enough to impress the other two. There's no mistaking the cack-handed nature of Prison tattoos.

Lucas grins. "Eight years for planning to bomb a Chechen Mosque," he lies easily. "Not pretty, I can tell you."

"I thought the Ruskies hate the Chechens? They shoulda given you a medal," Joe laughs at his own joke. "Anyway, we're having a proper meeting in a room above the White Boar pub, down near Hammersmith. Eight o'clock, this Tuesday. Come on down and we'll introduce you to some of our friends. I reckon we could do with someone like you on our team."

He hadn't expected it to be so easy. However, he pauses, pretending to think about it. Harry hasn't given the go-ahead for full infiltration of the English Defence Association, but Lucas can see no other way of finding out who the infamous Carl Winters really is.

He holds eye contact with the other man. "I'll be there; with bells on." Harry will just have to understand.

An hour passes in idle chat before Lucas can extricate himself from his new 'friends.' Outside, the night is warm, but a brisk breeze fans his flushed skin, blowing away the stale odour of the barroom. It is dark, but not so dark he cannot see. The distant hum of the traffic assures him that life goes on and, despite the sudden reminder of his prison days, he is not alone. That human beings exist all around him.

He takes a moment to breathe in the open air before setting off across the car park. But, only seconds later, another pair of footsteps fall in time to his. Whoever it is gaining on him, and he knows he left the bar alone. There was no one else in the empty car park, either. At least, none that he could see. He stops, but doesn't look back. He just listens to the footsteps gaining on, adrenaline surging fast in anticipation of trouble. The steps have the distinctive clipping of high-heels and, as quick as it surged, the adrenaline subsides and relief washes over him.

"Ros," he says, turning around at last.

She smiles at him. A gesture that transforms her entire face. Normally like granite, she now looks a few years younger.

"Did you miss me?" she asks, giving him a quick wink.

"Hardly noticed you were gone," he retorts. "How come you're back so soon? The excitement of the Home Secretary's shining company get too much for you?"

"Sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll; I thought it'd never end," she sighs. "Walk with me a minute. We need to talk."

He nods, falling into step at her side as they exit the car park. There's a low, brick wall marking the perimeter of the public house and Lucas heads towards it. From there, they can see who enters and leaves the building, plenty of warning if they need to make a hasty retreat. From inside, the distant, muffled sound of the infernal jukebox is carried to them on the breeze. No one will notice them, they just look like two lovers enjoying a bit of late night moonlight.

"The assassination of Imam Atallah means that his Mosque is going to be radicalised," explains Ros, leaning against the wall, looking towards the grimy windows of the pub. "We knew that, of course. The murder of a Moderate has made the Extremists argument for them. You can see how it looks, Lucas. So, we need to limit the damage if, or when, it comes."

Indeed, he could. "We send someone in there, naturally," he replies, reaching for the first logical suggestion. "But I hate asking Ben. He always gets landed with this one and, sometimes, I wonder if he gets a bit offended."

Ros sighs. "Now's not the time to worry too much about people's sensibilities, Lucas. Send him in there. You can't go in, pretending to be a convert or whatever. You're going to have all your energies tied up in the English Defence Association. Or, at least I'm assuming that's what you agreed to here, tonight?"

Lucas shrugs. "Something like that. Do you think Harry will mind?"

She turns to look at him, all of her trademark satire and condescension gone from her expression. She looks almost sad, soft and malleable. "I once told you that Harry sweated blood to get you back; that he would sooner die than let anything bad happen to you," she finally answers. "It's true. Only now, I agree with him."

The revelation makes his heartbeat skip; an alarming palpitation. Nonetheless, he's smiling; any younger or more naïve, he'd be blushing too.

"Must be my animal magnetism," he replies gently. She gives him a jab in the ribs, but he can hear her choking back the laughter, too. "Seriously, though. Do you not want me to do this?"

He had always thought her cut from the same cloth as Harry. No matter what the means, the end is always justified. Or almost always. However, her next words prove him right.

"You must do it," she replies, but she doesn't sound thrilled at the prospect. "I understand that. I followed you here tonight to just tell you to be bloody careful. Now, that is an order."

They face each other, their gaze meeting in the glow of the nearby street light. It is hardly romantic, but starlight in London is a pretty tall order. Not even their powers of manipulation can make it happen. Instead, he opts for the next best thing.

"Fancy a candlelit take-away?" he asks. "There's a chippy round the corner."

She returns his smile. "Sounds fantastic."

* * *

Harry casts a surreptitious glance in a shop front window, checking that his tie is straight for the tenth time. It is, but nevertheless he straightens it again. It seems the mere act of touching the knot fortifies his jittery nerves. Then, he turns to watch as his driver sets off down the busy street. His watch tells him it's almost time and, knowing Ruth, she will already be inside waiting for him. But, like a teenager on his first date, he falters by the door of the Concerto Restaurant, stopped in his tracks by the weight of his own expectations. But after a minute he inwardly chides himself and wrenches open the door.

Inside, it is surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night. The tables are set well apart, allowing the diners a passably degree of intimacy. A lone cellist plays quietly in a far corner, the noise complimenting the ambience, rather than intruding upon it. Soft-footed waiters pad between tables, shrinking into themselves as if trying to be invisible. A polite girl on reception takes his coat and asks if he has a booking. Answering in the negative, he looks around for Ruth.

He almost misses her. In his mind, he was looking for Ruth as she'd stepped off the Grid – all full length skirts and functional, knitted tops. Brown hair either scraped back in a pony-tail or hanging limp around her chin. But tonight, she sits waiting for him at the small table for two, her hair swept up and styled to perfection. A small strand hangs down, accentuating her high cheekbones. Around her shoulders lies a deep green silk scarf. Her gown, cut to fit her figure, is black. The sight of her takes his breath away all over again.

Finally, she looks up and sees him, her face breaking into a wide smile. Wasting no more time, he crosses the room to join her.

"Ruth, you look…" he stammers. "You look incredible."

"You don't scrub up too badly yourself!" she retorts, laughing.

For two blissful hours, they don't talk about work at all. They fail to discuss their colleagues; they couldn't care less about Politicians, far right extremists or angry Muslims. For two hours, they're just Harry and Ruth. They sample fine, Italian wines and nibble at dainty starters. He refills her glass and she compliments his cufflinks. He takes the piss out of the Cellist and they wince against the bitter taste of Caviar. After two and a half hours, two bottles of wine and a fine meal later, they pretend they haven't noticed the impatient waiter who now wants them out so the next paying customers can come in and take their table. So, he orders another fine whiskey. In a reckless act of daring, Ruth has one also.

However, reality cannot be kept at bay all night. Harry pays the bill using his own credit card and Ruth leaves a generous tip. When they leave, he offers his arm to her. For a second, Ruth looks at it as if she's never seen it before, but eventually, she links her own arm through it and together they walk out into the big, wide world.

They take a stroll down by the river. In the distance, the Tower of London is lit up in silver and blue lights. St Pauls winks at them from the distant horizon. The dark waters of the Thames gurgle in the swell, reflecting a rippling moon on its surface. All the while, they walk arm in arm.

"I'm going to Simpson's Office on Monday, Harry," says Ruth. "I volunteered to help out with the secretarial stuff there."

His heart sinks, nerves rising at so abrupt a reminder of their professional lives. "I don't suppose there's anything I can do to convince you not to do this."

She looks down at her feet. "No, not really. But it will be worth it, I promise you that."

He stops her; turns her to face him. "Ruth, just-" again, his words fail him. He grapples for the right thing to say. Anything to make her change her mind about this dangerous mission. She looks back at him, the street lights glittering in her bright blue eyes. He leans in, as if trying to get a closer look at them, and kisses her. Neither of them expected that, and Harry almost pulls away again as if it had been an embarrassing mistake. But Ruth responds in like kind, relaxing into his embrace. Finally, it is done and all bets are off.

* * *

Thanks again for reading and, if you have a moment, reviews would be appreciated.


	7. Winters of Discontent

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply and I own none of this. Thanks again for reading and reviews would be appreciated.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Winters of Discontent**

The small office building comes as a pleasant surprise to Ruth. The front is dominated by a large, plate glass window emblazoned with the red, white and blue logo of the English Nationalist Party. The interior is warmly lit, with new soft furnishings in the reception area. Laminated A4 posters carry times and dates of "advice sessions" for the local residents and potential E.N.P voters. There is even a sprawling plant decorously draped over the reception desk. To all intents and purposes, a respectable political outfit; a delicate veneer of class that Ruth could not imagine would withhold any degree of closer scrutiny.

Ruth pushes open the door and, somewhere within the building, a warning buzzer sounds, alerting the receptionist to the arrival of a visitor. As Ruth waits, she takes the room in again. Tasteful, stylish, expensive. She'd been in political party offices that were barely more than shacks; corrugated tin roofs propped up on sticks with scruffy students bearing homemade red rosettes, handing out dog eared leaflets outside in the rain. These people are being seriously bankrolled and she wants to know who by.

There is no actual receptionist, but minutes after she arrives Ruth is greeted by the party leader himself.

"Leanne," Douglas Simpson calls over to her from down a small, narrow corridor; his head jutting from around the door of a private office. He sees it's her and comes striding out. "Welcome aboard; great to see you. I hope you don't mind, but I remember you telling me about your receptionist job. I thought you could do that here, for now?"

Ruth reaches out to shake his hand and smiles brightly. "Sure," she replies, hiding her disappointment at finding him in the office and not, as she hoped, out on the campaign trail. "I have to leave at two; I need to collect Ethan from School at three and before that I want to get his tea in the oven. You know how it is."

The back story is second nature to her now. Naturally, when she leaves it will be to return to Thames House with a handbag full of copied hard drives, phone records and personal party member details. But that knowledge is stored in a small, unacknowledged part of her brain. Right at that moment in time she is Leanne Jenkins and she really is a struggling, single mother with Islamophobia issues.

"It's all right, honestly," he replies, smiling briefly as he considers what she had said to him. She can see judgements being formed behind his knitted brow. "I hope Ethan realises what a great mother he has."

She blushes and hopes he puts it down to her shyness. To bring the conversation to a natural close, she shrugs off her jacket and drapes it over the back of the chair, preparing to start work. However, Simpson is still standing there, looking like a man desperately trying to think of topics of conversation that don't revolve around football or work.

"Well," he finally states, leaning casually against the reception desk. "There's tea and coffee in the kitchen; milk in the fridge. Just help yourself. The mail will be here any minute; just bring it all to me. Other than that, you're just answering the phones, really."

Just answering the phones? Ruth's returning smile was genuine. "Thank you, Mr Simpson."

"Oh, please, call me Doug. Everyone else does."

With that, he is done. Ruth waits until she hears the door of his office close before taking a look behind her. The passageway is empty. Two other doors besides Doug's, but they are both shut and, presumably, locked. Above her desk, a camera films the main entrance. Although primarily focused on who arrives and who leaves, Ruth knows she will be clearly visible in the bottom, right hand corner of any playback. She positions her swivel chair so that the screen is blocked from the camera's view and enters access codes for the relevant security company. A few clicks of a mouse later and the cameras in the office are no longer filming anything, just pointlessly left switched on, just in case there is someone monitoring it.

With the all-seeing eye of CCTV temporarily blinded, she slips a bug into the telephone to begin monitoring calls. While she's doing that, the hard drive of her computer is being copied to a memory stick. Her telephone is connected to all other phones in the Office so calls can be transferred. It's the same in any Office and makes her job that little bit easier – all calls can still be recorded, even after transfer. While she waits for the rest of the hard drive to copy, she sends a coded text message to Malcolm from her own mobile. "Hi, Dad," it states. "Ethan got to school okay; his project's been handed in and he should have his grades by the end of the day. Very exciting!"

The message sent, the delivery notice chimes its arrival. Ruth checks the clock; eleven am. She gets up from her seat and takes a step down the corridor. Simpson's office door is closed. She knocks twice.

"Want a cup of tea, Doug?"

"Would love one, thanks Leanne. You're a star!" comes his muffled reply.

* * *

The call to noon prayers went up an hour ago and the service had not long finished. Abdul Khareem rolls up his prayer mat, placing it carefully back in his rucksack. The others were beginning to file out, returning to their daily lives, their jobs and their families. But Khareem hangs back, four other men all doing the same. They busy themselves with their belongings, making their delay seem a natural and unforeseen thing. As soon as they are alone, they drop the pretence. Casting furtive glances at the door, checking the others have gone and their privacy is absolute, they close in on each other.

Khareem walks slowly to the end of the room, where the Imam had conducted the service. He lifts the Koran and shows it to his lingering faith mates. He pauses, glancing down at the crisp, vellum pages of the Holy Book before turning his grey eyes back to his companions.

"Nothing is sacred to these people," he intones, gravely and holds up the Koran again. "Not even this. Nor this place, our temple; our place of worship."

The others are silent, their eyes all follow Khareem as he treads the floor, side to side. He lets the silence swell, letting their imaginations do some of his work for him while he places the book back down. He goes to step away, then stops himself; turning to the skirting board running the width of their mosque. He descends on it and pulls off the panelling, eliciting a shocked gasp from the others.

When he turns back to them, he's holding a small black device high above his head. Their expressions are uncomprehending, but this does not phase Khareem.

"This is a listening device; left here by MI5," he takes great delight in explaining. "They are monitoring us; listening to us. Spying on us."

He steps back and, for just a few moments, he lets the shock of his friends hit home. Disgust, fear and even sadness all register in their faces.

"Man, this place isn't safe anymore," the youngest of them stammers. His worried eyes flit between the faces of his companions, hoping that one of them sees the same dangers as he does. "They could be filming us right now. They could have cameras everywhere."

"Mahdi is right," another interjects. "We need to get out of here."

Khareem holds up a hand for silence, then points towards the back door leading out onto the garden. Silently, they file outside. Out in the open, away from the confines of the Mosque, they all breathe easy again.

But one man is already suspicious.

"How did you know it was there, Khareem?" he demands to know.

"What did you expect to happen?" Khareem counters. "After the murder of Imam Atallah, they're waiting for us to retaliate. You have to understand how their minds work: they don't care about who did it; they only care about how we're going to react."

Mahdi, the youngest of the group, steps closer. "Then aren't we, you know, playing into their hands? Wouldn't it be better if we just walked away?"

Three of his companions glower at him, angry replies threatening to burst at once. But, once again, Khareem holds up a hand for silence.

"Brother Mahdi makes a valid point, don't castigate him," he warns them. "Instead, let me explain why he is misguided." They fall silent, leaving the way for him to win over their doubting friend. "While they're so afraid of us, we have the advantage. We can use their fear as a weapon against them. With this act of martyrdom, you will have the upper hand all over again. Use it."

"And, you're volunteering to turn yourself into a bomb?" another man asks, eyebrow raised. "I know you converts like to over-compensate. But this going a little far, even by your standards!"

His attempt at humour is met with frowns and sighs of dismay. He shrugs, mutters an apology but the inane grin is still on his face. Khareem, however, pretends that he didn't even hear it. His expression is grim, set-jawed determination.

"I am offering myself as sacrifice-"

Another man, Ahmed, steps forwards with a confident stride. "And so am I."

Khareem seems surprised. It had not been agreed and for a moment, he loses his mental footing. He recovers himself swiftly; smiles as though the benefits of a double attack suddenly reveal themselves in a divine mirage sent by the Prophet himself. He gives a slow nod of approval.

"Timing is everything," Khareem says. "We'll meet again to discuss when, as soon as we have everything we need. Mahdi, you can coordinate, and you two can put out feelers among the others. See if anyone would be likely to join and support our crusade."

"What will happen to those who don't?" asks Mahdi.

"They know where the door is, and how to close it on their way out."

"So, they will make it that far?" he presses further.

"What do you take me for?" Khareem retorts, finally the mask slipping just a fraction. "We're Holy Warriors; not murderers."

The impromptu meeting concludes as the clock strikes two o'clock. They disperse out into busy streets, packed with late diners and early rush hour traffic. They melt back into the crowds with ease; unnoticed by anyone. Khareem glances down the main street, waiting impatiently for a break in the traffic. Once safely over the road, he is swallowed in the tidal wave of afternoon shoppers and commuters. Another uneventful day in the life of a British city centre.

* * *

Lucas pauses in the door way of the White Boar pub, getting his bearings and marking the exits. This pub is very much like the other. Fading, patched up furnishings and old nicotine stains on the walls. The ceiling is low and ventilation poor. Only a few patrons loiter around the bar, staring listlessly into flat pints of lager and ale, that day's newspapers idle by their elbows. A middle age woman with a tight perm stands behind the bar, one elbow resting on the beer pump as she watches the news on the big screen fixed to the far wall. Reports of more rioting broadcast to the largely indifferent barroom.

"Terrible innit, Bob," she says, briefly turning to the man in front of her.

Lucas approaches the bar, catching her eye as he does so.

"Can I help, Mister?"

No one is listening to them, but he keeps his voice low, anyway. "I'm here for the meeting," he explains. "I was told its tonight?"

She doesn't react, but she clearly knows what he's talking about. She turns to a woman Lucas hadn't noticed at first. This one younger, and absorbed in a magazine.

"Francine, take this Gentleman up stairs will you?"

She's less than enthusiastic. For a long moment, she simply stares at them both, mechanically chewing at some gum. When she decides it's time to make a move, she tosses her magazine aside like a teenager in a tantrum before begrudging leading Lucas upstairs without so much as a 'hello' by way of greeting. To his relief, though, the meeting is only first floor. Escape, should it be needed, will be easy enough.

They reach a door directly above the barroom, from inside the sounds of voices can already be heard. The meeting has already begun. Out of habit, he discreetly touches the bug concealed in his collar, making certain that it's still in place and ready to go.

"There y'are, mate," says the sullen girl, who promptly pushes past him and trudges back down the carpeted stairs to the public bar.

The occupants of the room number no more than a dozen. They huddle around four or five tables that have been pushed together. They all cease talking as soon as Lucas enters, twenty-four eyes all staring back at him from over their accompanying shoulders. It's a tense moment; the first proper introduction, but he's done it so often now, it's water off the proverbial duck's back.

"Dave Smith," he says, giving his alias. "Peach got me in."

There's a moment of silence in which the man at the head of the table gestures to him to come inside.

"All right, Dave," he says, tilting his chair back so he can reach another one for Lucas to sit in. "Come on in and close the door behind you. Peach did mention you. He should be here soon."

Before he can sit down, a round of introductions are made. Maddeningly, they do so with what are clearly nicknames. They don't trust him yet, and that means they're unlikely to reveal anything major in front of him – at least not for now. However, his foot is well in the door; and he can always fit a camera if he gets a few minutes in there alone.

"So, how's Winters getting on? Is he gracing us with his presence tonight?" one man asks.

The man at the head of the table looks up from a dairy open before him on the table.

"No, but he's sent an important message through," he replies. "There's a few at that Mosque planning a revenge attack and he's got their names. He reckons he can find out the precise times and dates, so we can strike back at the same time."

Lucas's mind flips over. "Do you have this place under surveillance?" he asks. If they did, surely MI5 would know about it.

The man grins. "Something like that," he answers enigmatically. Lucas thinks he won't say anymore, but almost as if it's an act of welcoming for the new boy, the man does go further. "Let's just say Carl Winters knows people, who know people, who know what's going on. There's a chain of command, if you like. We've made sure that the right hand always knows what the left hand is doing."

Lucas sits back and lets the meeting commence without further interruption. He wants to know what makes them tick before he really begins leading them down any paths. Mostly it's ideas for fund raising, spreading their message and recruiting new members safely, without attracting the attention of the State. It's tame, work-a-day stuff for any fledgling organisation, nothing that Lucas can work on, besides the snippet he was thrown earlier.

But then comes the pay-off. An hour into proceedings, the door opens again and in walks Douglas Simpson, leader of the English Nationalist Party. Lucas makes sure his concealed camera gets a good look at him by getting up to shake his hand. With him, is another, smaller man. There's a shaving cut on his left cheek, he has gingery, fine hair and speaks with a South London accent.

"Did ya miss me, fellas?" he asks, plonking himself at the far end of the tables. He flashes a wide grin at them.

"How's it going, Carl? Didn't expect to see you!" they all chorus, with little variation in their greeting.

Lucas breathes a sigh of relief, expectation, exhilaration. He doesn't know what, but he's finally caught the big fish.

Carl Winters leans forward, elbows braced against the table. "It's all falling into place," he says, his tone even and hushed. "I can get everything we need by the end of next week."

Then, Simpson joins the conversation. "You may want to wait," he says, taking a spare place at the table. "Something's come up, and I think you'll all be interested."

Silence. All eyes turn towards him. "There's going to be a special Question Time for the BBC. All the party leaders together in one building. Location not confirmed and I'm invited. I'll leave you all to think about that."

He gets up again, nudges the man next to him. "Come on, Al. Let's get a drink."

Lucas, also, decides it's time to bail. He's got what he came for, got a face shot of Carl Winters, and staying any longer prolongs the risk of his cover being blown. They inform him of the next meeting: same time; same place. Then, he's taking the stairs two at a time, retreating as fast as he can without arousing suspicion.

However, he reaches the main entrance of the bar. There is a second room he had not noticed before: a lounge bar. Soft furnishings and nice carpets – a more genteel place where the drinks are more expensive. Douglas Simpson and his friend Al are ensconced at a table inside a private snug, deep in conversation. Lucas cannot resist, he inches closer so he can hear; his hopes of something huge rising like a swelling in his chest. He drops down to his hunkers and starts retying his shoelaces just in case he's caught listening in. It's old, but it's still better than being caught just standing there, clearly eavesdropping.

"Nice girl is she, this Leanne?" Al asks.

Lucas genuinely slips the knot and messes up this simple task. He almost chokes. They're talking about Ruth. A private conversation between two dangerous men about woman he loves as though she were a sister is enough to bring him out in a cold sweat.

"Yeah, she seems lovely," replies Simpson. "I think I might ask her out. Take her down the caff for a spot of lunch. Maybe, an afternoon drink afterwards. I really want to get to know 'er better."

Lucas hastily finishes tying his laces and straightens up before slipping out the front door. Outside, the summer sun is late in setting. He casts a lengthy shadow as he vaults the low wall that marks the perimeter of the pub's grounds. On the pavement of the high street, he looks left and right. There's hardly anyone about and nary a taxi to be seen anywhere. He sighs, fishes in his coat pocket for his own mobile to call a cab instead, a large black Range Rover pulls up beside him. Once they're level, the tinted back window slides down, revealing the face of Harry Pearce.

"You took your time," he grumbles.

Lucas grins. "Spying on your own now?"

He lets himself into the back, next to Harry. He's alone, not even Ruth keeping him company now. Inside, the vehicle is lushly upholstered. The engine barely makes a noise and the in-built air conditioning keeps the mid-summer heat at bay. The driver does his job, leaving the two men to talk – if only the average London cabbie could follow the same example. However, at least Harry Pearce has worked to earn the privileges of his station. The man himself is relaxed, despite the gruffness of his greeting to Lucas. He's reclined in his seat, not bothering with the constraints of his seat-belt and dressed in a full-length black coat in open defiance of the spate of hot weather. Even Harry's hands are still snugly encased in black leather gloves.

Lucas notices the frown on Harry's face, the eyes trained on his knees like he's wrestling some deep, inner demon. There's a struggle going on behind those green eyes.

"Lucas," he states, formal and stiff. "My little outburst the other morning."

He leaves it there and Lucas begins to understand the nature of the struggle going on. In fact, it must be more like out and out war. He cannot help but smile, but successfully suppresses a laugh out of respect for his colleague, his friend even. He keeps his reply to a neutral: "what of it?"

Harry suddenly turns to look at him. "It was most unfortunate, Lucas."

He detects the gentle persuasions of Ruth Evershed smoothing out the path to this rare moment.

"Apology accepted," replies Lucas, knowing full well an apology hadn't been made, but was at least intended. It was kissing and making up the manly way.

"So, we're all right now? Back on an even keel?" Harry asks, making sure everything was clear.

Lucas nods. "It's great. Everything's fine."

Their gaze meets for a brief second before they both turn away and look out of the car windows. Clearing their throats deeply, dispersing the moment before they get stuck in it. It's time to change the subject.

"Speaking of Ruth-"

"I never mentioned Ruth!" Harry protest.

"You didn't have to," Lucas retorts. "But listen, this is serious. She's impressed Simpson a little too much. He wants to take her out for dinner."

Harry makes a sound between a cough and choking deep in his throat. "That bastard!" he spits the words, suddenly agitated. The colour rises high in his face. "He'll be lucky if he ever sees her again, so he needn't get his hopes up."

Lucas frowns. "Harry, you don't seriously think Ruth would consider it?"

The other man calms himself, closes his eyes and takes deep, cleansing breaths. Lucas didn't realise the jealousy monster was so easily aroused in Harry.

"No, of course she wouldn't. I mean, the thought's absurd," he explains. "Leave it with me, I'll call her as soon as I get home. For now, give me what you've got. I want to take a look before the staff meeting tomorrow."

Lucas divests himself of his listening device, tracker and hidden camera. The rest of the journey passing off in amiable chat, Lucas gives him a small briefing of the evening's events. Finally, it seemed as if they were making progress. After half an hour crawling through the London traffic, Lucas is deposited at the end of his street. It is dusk, but the street lights are not yet on. But the place is silent. Cars line the kerb, everyone's at home now, the end of another long day. The muffled sounds of television sets showing sitcoms and game shows. Children make a racket in back gardens the size of a postage stamp. But Lucas ignores it all as his eye alights on his own flat. The living room light is on; switched on by someone other than him. He freezes, phone out already, whether to call Harry back, or call the Police, he doesn't yet know.

He stands, transfixed, until the curtain twitches. The nets are pulled aside, and Ros appears at the window. She sees him right away, her frown melting away as she registers his face, his completeness. No missing limbs, no missing teeth. He has survived. She smiles as she raises her hand, displaying a bottle of wine the way a medieval headsmen would display a severed head to the crowds of onlookers. His step quickens and he's at the door as she swings it open in welcome.


	8. In Too Deep

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input means a lot. As always, I own none of this (beside the few OCs I use). Thanks again for bearing with me and reviews are always appreciated. Thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Eight: In Too Deep**

It's all very English. A steaming pot of tea; two chipped his n' hers mugs warming up nicely and a brand new packet of chocolate digestives – an especially extravagant splashing out of the petty cash. Yesterday's milk's gone bad, so Harry is relieved that his forward planning has already averted one crisis and he merely opens the pint he lifted on his way into Thames House. Normally, it's Ruth who does this, but today, he's treating her. The clock on the wall of the kitchenette informs him it's already eight thirty; Ruth's cutting it fine if she wants their usual early morning briefing before the others arrive.

However, arrive she does. To his dismay Jo, Ben, Lucas, Ros and Malcolm are all hot on her heels. They descend on the Grid in one fell swoop; a deluge of agents shattering the morning tranquillity with a storm of chatter, bags tossed on tables, jackets thrown on the rack by the door all rounded off by computers chiming into life. A flurry of activity interrupted by Ros poking her head around the door – the first of them to realise he's even there at all.

"You making the tea Harry?" she asks. "Milk; two sugars. Thanks."

"Good morning to you too, Ros. I'm fine thanks, how're you?" he replies testily, but she's already gone back on the Grid.

All he gets in reply is Jo: "black, no sugar for me, Harry."

His second attempt at biting sarcasm is cut off by Ben. "Coffee for me, Harry. Cheers."

Harry glowers back at them. "Lovely to see you, too," he huffs, re-boiling the kettle with more water.

Possibly still smarting from his last rebuke, Lucas is at least a little more delicate in sidestepping his boss as he reaches for the chocolate biscuits. "Don't mind if I do," he murmurs to himself as he clamps one between his teeth. He then reaches for his own mug, the one he always uses – an old prison habit of always using the same utensils - and sits it next to the kettle. "Tea for me, Harry," he says, hastily gulping down the biscuit. "Milk; two sugars. Lovely."

He nabs another biscuit and is gone, leaving nothing more than the scent of his Cologne hanging in the air. Resisting the urge to accidentally on purpose mistake the salt for sugar, Harry decides to be the better man and play nicely at being tea-boy. He's about to pour the first teas out when he catches movement by the door from the tail of his eye. He turns, finding Ruth leaning against the doorframe.

"Need a hand?" she asks.

She's smiling, enough to mollify his fraying temper somewhat. But not entirely.

"It's like feeding time at the zoo," he grumbles. "Herd them towards the meeting room will you, we actually have important business to discuss."

She laughs as she counts out the mugs. "Make one for Malcolm, too. He didn't ask, I know. He's too much of a gentleman. Oh, and bring the biscuits. They all want one now."

Harry tries not to roll his eyes and takes a deep breath. He and Ruth, alone in the kitchenette for a little pre-briefing briefing. It's not all bad.

An hour into the team meeting, all eyes are on Ben Kaplan. They watched the footage taken from the Birmingham Mosque, filmed on the secret camera installed by Ros following the murder of the Imam some days previously. The funeral had already taken place; passing off peacefully to everyone's relief. Courtesy of the press, they even have plenty of photographs to rifle through for potential future terrorists. But, back to the footage they already have, a world of espionage possibilities opens up before them. All they have to do is select the right one.

After a contemplative silence, Ben finally speaks, nerves betrayed by the way he robotically twirls a biro between his fingers.

"The younger one," he says. "Was it, Mahdi? He's not sure about this; not sure at all. I think we can work on him, bring him over to our side."

"I agree," replies Ros, to Ben's evident surprise. "He is very jittery, though. Will he have the nerve to betray his friends and carry it through?"

Everyone falls back into contemplation for a moment. But Ben is keen to pursue his intended course.

"Given the right support and guidance, I think he can do it," he insists. "We'll need to keep up the pressure, perhaps."

Harry is at the head of the table; elbows propped against the arm rests, hands steepled, he lets the agents brainstorm amongst themselves, letting them bash out their own ideas. He merely acts as a guide, sometimes as referee, in these lengthy discourses. He likes to see them make their own way, use their own initiative. Sometimes, he helps out those who're not often inclined to project their own ideas onto the other, more assertive agents. So, he looks down the table at Malcolm and knows there's some awkward revelation coming just from the look in his eyes.

"Malcolm," says Harry, cutting across Jo unintentionally. "You look like you're about to say something."

Malcolm hesitates, at first. "Ah, yes," he finally says, pointing his pen at the screen. "Do you mind just rolling the footage back to when the young man discovers an MI5 listening device?"

"We already know it's not one of ours," Lucas gently explains. "Whoever put that there is a total amateur."

"Oh, I know. But I want to check something."

Harry nods to Lucas, indicating he should roll the film back as requested. Malcolm gestures at the precise moment, where the film is paused. Malcolm peers intently at it, leaning so far forwards he's almost across Jo's lap by the time he's done.

"That's not even a listening device," he says. "Look carefully at it. That's just an old computer chip; an early AMD model, if I'm not mistaken-" he adds with disgust: "Not even a proper Intel one. There's some run of the mill copper wiring twisted around it. That's all. Anyone with an old computer could have made that and those AMD processors didn't last for five minutes."

"Funny how he knew exactly where it was, too," Jo observes. "He put it there himself, just to convince the others that there really is a Holy War going on and they need to be in it, or go the same way as the Imam."

"Jo's right," Ben interjects before anyone else. "Harry, I want to be in there as soon as possible. Something really off is going down at that place."

Harry, inclined to agree, turns to Ruth. "Everything in place for Ben?" he asks.

Ruth reaches into her magical mystery files and pulls out a separate sheaf. "There you go, Imran Siddique," she says, handing over the file. "Memorise every last detail and you're ready to go."

Satisfied that things were moving along nicely at the Mosque, Harry turns back to the others.

"Meanwhile, Lucas and Ros…" he states, gesturing for either one of them to take up the thread.

"Is going back to the EDA," replies Lucas. "And no heroics, Harry. I swear." He then adds in an undertone: "At least not yet."

"I'm going to rejoin the Home Sec's camp," says Ros. "I'm going to be making sure the election campaign is still swinging."

"And make sure that's the only swinging the Home Sec does," Harry interjects, bringing a burst of muffled sniggering from the others. "Jo, brief us on what's going at your end."

Jo sits up straight, hands folded neatly on the table in front of her. "There's a Question Time special being organised by the BBC for all the party leaders," she explains. "We know it's likely to become a target by either the EDA or Islamic extremists so I'm overseeing security and making sure it passes off peacefully. I think, though, it's going to draw the terrorists out like honey. We need to watch it closely."

"When is the live debate happening?" asks Ros.

"A week this Thursday," she replies. "That's precisely one week before the election is due to happen."

"Excellent Jo, but again, be careful. Don't do anything without consulting the rest of the team, first," Harry says. "Now, Ruth?"

The two of them look at each other. He already knows the answer. He can see it in the rueful downturn of her mouth, the way she drops her gaze. "You know I'll be careful," she replies. Not really an answer, as such. "I'll be recording everything. Malcolm's seen to it, personally."

Malcolm beams up at Harry from the opposite end of the table. Already, the others are discreetly inching towards the door. "Oh yes, particularly state of the art, there's actually a tiny camera concealed in a pendant that Ruth's going to be wearing around her neck," he begins explaining, seemingly impervious to the others. "That links to a live feed that we can only access here on the Grid using the highest encryption possible. It's actually a thirty-six digit code of letters and numbers, both upper and lower cases and even the odd symbol thrown in for good measure."

"You mean to say you didn't just leave the password at "password", Malcolm?" Ben asks, droll and dry. "You do surprise me."

Ros glowers him into silence with one withering look. Malcolm goes to give an honest answer, but stops himself short. "Ah yes," he says, realising it was a joke. "Very funny. But no."

Ben shrugs. "True though, innit?" he protests. "We're MI5 and everyone expects us to use ninety digit, state of the art whatever it is. We should double bluff them every once in a while and leave it at default."

Lucas bites back a snort of laughter. "Yeah, we'll try that one when you're next out in the field."

"Thank you, Gentlemen, but I think we'll stick with Malcolm's suggestion for now," Harry interjects, bringing the meeting to a close.

* * *

Ruth picks somewhere quiet for lunch. The main streets are crowded with afternoon shoppers and Office workers disgorged from their buildings for a few precious hours. Adding to that, is the heavy traffic. But, down the cobbled streets of Olde London, is a haven from the modern world; an Oasis in the urban desert. Set well back from the Palaces, Castles, Museums and Parks; surrounded by ramshackle bookshops and old curiosity shops, is the Café of her choice.

Taking advantage of the hot weather, she grabs a seat outside while Dougie Simpson goes in to place their order. Their table is set beneath a hanging basket fixed to the whitewash, mock-Tudor building, in the pleasant shade. Bright enough and quiet enough for her camera to pick up everything, she prepares to play her part as Dougie sets down their steaming lattes.

"I didn't know if you'd like this sort of place," Ruth says, drawing her cup closer and upsetting the table on its uneven legs, causing her drink to spill.

"Nah, I love it," he replies, reaching for a napkin. "Here, let me get that."

He dabs at the spilled drink now soaking into the white tablecloth. Ever the gentleman. Ruth looks down the street, checking out the faces around her and carefully avoiding the agent Harry had insisted on sending out to tail them. He was in an unmarked repair van down the street. No one took any notice of either them, or him. She had to admit, she felt safer with the tail now that she had discovered Simpson has taken a shine to her.

When she turned back to Simpson, she cannot help but notice that he is the type of man she would have looked more than once at, before Harry came along. There was nothing to mark him out as an extremist. Nothing to betray the odiousness of his beliefs. No mark of violence. Not that she expects all extremists to carry a flashing, neon sign of course. Only his rough, "sa-ath Lahndan" accent holds the clues to his working class origins. Everything else is a carefully cultivated veneer of normality and respectability.

"Someone called the Office before we left," she says. "Wanted to know if Carl Winters was in. You were out at the time, so I said I didn't know where or who he is. I hope that's okay?"

He looks up from the menu. "Oh yeah, don't worry about it." His attention returns to the menu, he selects the fish and chips before handing it over to Ruth. "My treat, Leanne. Have whatever you want."

She smiles through her dismay. Dismay that the name Carl Winters didn't elicit much by way of excitement from him. She looks at the menu, if only to add an air of casualness to her next enquiry. "Is Winters important to your campaign? I'll remember to take a message next time."

Simpson laughs. "I dunno who was looking for Carl back at the Office. He's not really with us, you see. I mean, he works for us. He helps out a lot. But he's forwards and backwards all over the place. Runs round like a blue arsed fly, that one."

Now she's getting somewhere. She picks the first item on the menu that catches her eye and waves over the waitress to place their order. But, the minute the girl's gone again, it's straight back to business.

"Is he organising the campaign in several different cities, then?" she asks. "I thought you had more people than that."

"Oh, we do," he replies, pausing to sip his latte. "But, Carl is more EDA. He's a bit of an action man, so to speak. He wouldn't be suited to sitting in an office all day."

Ruth nods. "I can understand that," she says. She looks away for a minute, taking a deep breath as she decides to probe a little deeper, a little closer to the heart of the operation. "Being so close to an organisation like the EDA, are you not worried that they will try to dominate you? Or dictate policy to you?"

She fears she may have gone too far, too soon. But when she looks back at Dougie, he is unfazed by her questions. He drops his voice as he answers. "Between you and me, I've always had the deepest of respect for parties like, for example, Sinn Fein in Ireland. They once said they were pursuing their goals with "an Armalite in one hand and the ballot box in the other." I agree with that, Leanne. Sinn Fein led, but always had the IRA for back up. That's the vision I have for the English Defence Association, and that's where I want Winters to come in. He commands a huge amount of respect from our activists on the ground – but like I said, he's no politician. I'm not gonna let his talents go to waste, though."

"I see what you mean about Sinn Fein," Ruth replies. "But Sinn Fein only became the biggest Nationalist party in Ireland once they had renounced violence unequivocally and decommissioned all of their weapons. Do you believe the English electorate will accept the English Nationalist Party while they're being tagged by a Paramilitary organisation?"

Simpson smiles, sets down his cup and leans forward as though Ruth had led him to the most exciting bit. "We're not connected to the English Defence Party like that, Leanne," he explains. "Rather, we're two different organisations with two different approaches, but we're working towards the same goal. So, for now, while it's mutually beneficial, why not work together?"

Ruth has visions in her head: Nazi brown shirts storming into meetings of the opposition and subjecting their opponents to beatings and summary executions. Images of the Night of the Long Knives, or a Kristallnacht, happening all around her, in these same quaint, historical cobbled streets. It doesn't bear thinking about, but the man in front of her has the capacity to make it happen. Her throat feels dry; her stomach churns as their food is brought out to them.

"Just returning to your Sinn Fein analogy, Dougie," she says, once the waitress has gone again. "There was a set of circumstances in Northern Ireland that led to an explosion of violence in 1968/69. The peaceful Civil Rights movement had been brutally assaulted; wrongly denounced as the IRA. Catholics had been burned out of their homes by Loyalist mobs. They had no rights, in some places no vote; or their vote counted for nothing because Protestants in Londonderry got two votes. That place was a tinderbox, just waiting for the right spark to set the whole chain reaction off. The circumstances that led to the rise of Sinn Fein and the Provisional IRA just don't exist in England. We have everything we need, surely?"

That knowing smile spreads across his face once more as he gulps down a mouthful. "But, Leanne, despite everything you've been through, you still don't seem to understand. The Muslims and the Blacks are taking over. You and I, the whites of England – the indigenous people of this Island – are set on the same path the Catholics of Northern Ireland were on not one hundred years ago, when the Ulster Covenant was first signed. A native people, subjugated and shoved aside by newcomers who wanted the best for themselves. It's happening now, it's happening here and we're too afraid to stand up to them. That's why we need the English Defence Associated. To fight fire with fire. But don't worry, Leanne. Once we're in and established, we'll be getting rid of them. Just like Sinn Fein got shot of the IRA, in the end."

She can only imagine what he means by that. Ruth forces herself to carry on eating, regardless of her stomach churning – through fear as much as disgust. She wills herself to carry on as normal, as though she completely agreed with him. She thinks of the pendant around her neck; Malcolm's ingenious camera capturing every moment of this meeting for eternity. As she drinks deeply from her cup, she casts a quick, furtive glance at the van with her tail in it. Still there, still in her plain sight, she breathes a little more easily. However, she still feels the urge to vomit and ends up excusing herself to make a dash for the ladies.

Once freshened up, Ruth returns to her lunch date with a smile and fortified nerves. "We should be getting back," she says. "It's almost three."

* * *

Peach, Lucas's asset in the English Defence Association, is jittery. He's waiting on the corner of the street, hopping from one foot to the other as if he's desperate for a piss. Lucas watches him from the opposite end of the road, wondering what on earth's wrong with him. Quickening his pace, he has to practically hold the man down.

"We can't talk here," he says, his gaze shooting up and down the street, noting every person who passes him by.

A chill dread wraps its sickening tendrils around Lucas's body as he leads the way down a side alley just off the Brixton Road. He keeps walking, dodging the over turned bins and discarded furniture that seem to pile up in every abandoned corner of the City. The smell is appalling, foxes in heat. Until he's satisfied that they're far from the main crowds of shoppers, Lucas stops and turns Peach to face him.

"Has your cover been blown?" he asks, getting straight to the point.

Peach almost laughs. "God, man, I wish!" he retorts.

Lucas breathes a sigh of relief. If Peache's cover gets blown, then his will undoubtedly go the same way.

"What is it, then?"

Peach swallows hard, casts another panicked glance around. "I've got to go down the Docks tonight," he says. "There's a consignment of explosives and guns coming in. They want me there to get it and bring it to them. Winters is taking me; I can't get out of it. Not when Winters is asking for me by name."

"Shit!" Lucas curses heavily, making the other man flinch as though he'd been physically struck. He's thinking fast, pacing the small space that constitutes the width of the alley. "If you bow out, you'll attract attention. If we intercept, it'll blow your cover and mine-"

"Because they know you're with me, Luke," he replies, getting Lucas's name wrong, as is customary for Peach. "But you said you would stop this. That you and your spooky friends can walk through walls to stop this happening. That's why I agreed to help you, man. I trusted you; you said no one would get hurt and now here they are, taking guns and ammo and stuff to make bombs with. I don't wanna see no one get hurt. That's all. I got in with the wrong crowd and I wanted to make it better. I thought you could do that and now I think you're a liar, too-"

"Peach!" Lucas shouts at him, grabs him by the shoulders and gives him a firm shake. "Stop panicking, all right. This is a set-back. That's all. Even if we let that stuff into the country, we can still stop it later. All we need to do is follow the trail they leave."

He explains things as simply as he can, then waits. Slowly, Peach pulls himself together. He's trembling violently – a kid who fell in with the wrong crowd, who's now grown into a man who can see the error of his ways. Nervously, he chews at his finger nails, despite the ingrained dirt there. Gradually, his breathing slows and Lucas thinks it's safe to carry on.

"Peach, listen to me," he speaks clearly and firmly. "Go along and keep your cover at all costs. We will catch up with it. We won't let anything major happen. Got that?"

Peach doesn't reply immediately. But he nods his head. "Got it," he says, voice weak with fear.

Lucas knows he has nothing to feel guilty for, but using people – ordinary citizens – as pawns always got to him. They were always in too deep. They give an inch, but MI5 will take a mile. However, the rational side of his mind tells him it's a necessary evil.

"Will you feel better if I come with you," suggests Lucas. "I can wait, out of sight, in the car. I can take details of what I see. Get you fitted with a hidden camera. How does that sound?"

Peach runs a hand through his hair, pulling at it to relieve the stress he's under. Then he stops, finally relaxes and nods again. "Thanks, Luke. I mean that; you're a good man. I didn't mean what I just said there."

Lucas wishes all his assets were as easily soothed. He leads the way back on to the main street, where life goes on as normal. Even this brief interlude in his day cannot be allowed to affect him long-term. But, as he pretends to browse, mingles with shoppers and commuters, his mind races ahead to what's coming. At the moment, nothing can be ruled out; so he rules everything in, instead.

* * *

Back on the Grid, Ros spends her final, pre-Birmingham hours, looking thoughtfully at two enlarged photographs. Black and white, but perfectly clear, she doesn't know what to make of them. One is labelled Abdul Khareem; the other just says "Ahmed". They are the radicalised ring-leaders, she knows that well enough. But it is plain old "Ahmed" of no surname that attracts her eye. Khareem, she's noticed, does all the talking, which usually means someone else is providing the grand speeches. Ahmed is in the back ground, always there, always near. She thinks she saw him in the Mosque on the day of the Imam's assassination.

She checks the clock and sees that her train will be leaving in two hours. Hurriedly, she slips the photographs into a large, brown envelope and marks it "Urgent". As she goes to get her jacket, she leaves the envelope on Ruth's desk before leaving, with Ben close behind her with his legend fixed firmly in his head.


	9. Operation Mirage

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it's appreciated. Usual disclaimers apply.

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Operation Mirage**

It's almost romantic – the moonlight rippling across the surface of the silently undulating Thames. The star strewn sky stretched out over the city of London, shrouding the people, the buildings and suburbs in this cradle of the night. The only thing spoiling the ambience are the three cars parked in the deserted docklands. An engine left running on one, the exhaust fumes form a thin black cloud over the yellowing, smoke-poisoned undergrowth. The contents of the boot of the second car is of intense interest to two men. Someway off from these two cars is the third. Parked between the skeletal remains of two cranes once used to unload the ships, it looks down a steep incline to watch the other two. The blacked out windscreen reflects the sickle moon, nicely concealing the state secret who sits behind the wheel, watching the proceedings with his heart hammering somewhere near his Adam's apple.

Lucas North turns to his passenger. "Who're all these people? I thought it was just you and Winters?"

The man, Peach, turns to look at Lucas, the peak of his baseball cap almost jabbing the Senior Case Officer in the eye. "That's what I thought, too," he replies, his voice wavering in uncertainty. "Maybe it's Old Bill?"

Poor man; he sounds so hopeful. Lucas hates to be the bearer of bad news; the killer of the last ray of hope. "No chance," he categorically states. "The Met know this is our Case and won't interfere. It's not CO19, because calling them would blow your cover – or so I thought before I realised there was more than just the two of you involved."

"So, you can call them now?"

Lucas gives a shake of his head. "It's far too late for that. Let's back up the car and get this over with."

With a crunch of loose gravel, the car inches backwards, further out of the line of sight of the other vehicles and comes to a halt against a steep embankment. Once stationary again, Lucas picks a small device from his breast pocket and hands it to Peach. It's a listening device.

"Put it here," he says, pointing to his own ear. "I need to know what's being said while you're down there and you need to hear me, if needs be".

Peach looks at it before taking it, it's small enough to fit on the tip of his index finger. He looks sceptical, as though he's not quite caught up with the age of micro-technology. However, he does as Lucas says, inserting it into his ear. He already has a microphone concealed beneath his collar. With everything in place, he opens the passenger door and slips out into the night.

Alone with his thoughts is never an ideal situation for Lucas. His own past is a distraction, a strangling vine that pulls him downwards and he needs to remain sharp and focused on what's happening out there, especially now that he cannot see the men in question any more. But before long, the voice of his Asset sounds in his ear. Lucas sits up straight, elbows braced against the steering wheel.

"What've we got here then, Carl?" Peach asks.

"Twenty pounds of semtex, detonators and a case-load of handguns, fresh from our friends in the west," comes the reply. "You did come alone, didn't you Peach?"

Lucas's body tenses. In the background, he can hear a wooden crate being winched open. Followed soon by the unmistakable sound of bullets being loaded into the chamber of a gun. The soft, metallic clinks set his teeth on edge.

"Course I am," replies Peach, nerves showing. He is getting jittery again.

After a long pause, Winters speaks again. "That's good, because Dougie has his doubts about your friend, Davey. The one who popped up out of nowhere and seems to like listening in on other people's conversations."

"I dunno what you're talking about, Carl."

"Oh, I think you do," Winters replies, his tone even, utterly emotionless. Already, Lucas is reaching for the keys, but his steeled nerves hold him in his place. "It's just, after the other night, when Dougie and Reynolds went off together for a little private chat, Dougie reckons your man was loitering nearby, having a good old listen. Not that he heard much. Just Dougie talking about some bird he fancies."

"Well then," says Peach, followed by a nervous laugh. "No read harm done, eh?"

Lucas almost groans out loud and withdraws his hand from the keys in the ignition. The car engine revving suddenly will blow Peach's cover; he's already talking himself deeper into the shit. Instead, Lucas opens the door and silently eases himself out of the car. A few feet behind him, there's a dip in the ground. He hunkers down there and speaks almost silently into his microphone.

"Bring them to the car now; show them you're here alone."

"Y'what?" comes the confused reply, causing Lucas to physically recoil in his hiding place. He wants to block his ears to what the other men are saying, but he has no choice.

"Who're you talking to?" Winters demands.

It is followed by the sound of footsteps shuffling in the loose gravel. In his mind, Lucas can picture the men circling Peach, cutting off his escape routes until they have him cornered like an animal.

"N-no one," Peach stammers in return. "You've got this all wrong."

Lucas winces as his earpiece suddenly crackles with static as Peach's shirt is ripped violently from his body – taking his microphone with it. The voice of Carl Winters, much closer; much louder: "I bet the mole's close by, go search."

In one final, desperate attempt to retrieve the situation, Peach calls out one more time. "Check my car, it's empty. I'm here on my own, I swear! I wouldn-" A single gunshot cuts off the rest of his sentence; followed by a deafening, crushing silence.

Lucas tries to shut his brain down; to stop the images of his Asset's death from flooding his mind as he himself scrambles down the incline. Starting the car would be suicide – it would betray his location and cause a potentially deadly chase if they caught up with him (and they were bound to have drivers waiting behind the wheels of their own cars already).

Instead, he plays it as safely as he can. He weaves his way stealthily through the deserted Docklands, losing himself amongst the moonlight scaffold poles jutting out of the earth; the derelict buildings that line the abandoned riverbanks and the remains of heavy industry that once thrived here. He will find his way back to the city, to the places where he can lose himself among the crowds, soon enough. Only then will he be able to rid himself of the sense of culpability for that man's death.

* * *

"Nervous?" Ros's eyes leave the road only briefly to glance at Ben, sat beside her in the passenger seat.

"Yeah," he replies. "I'll be fine once I'm in with the Jihadists, though."

Ros chuckles, a brief, throaty chuckle. She knows full well that Ben has never quite recovered from the whole Yalta business. She's never been the emotionally incontinent type and, lucky for Ben, that extends to getting offended. However, she does wonder whether she should say something, an assurance that she would never have shot him, but it would only sound hollow – even to her own ears. It would only be dragging up the past, and that was something no one could ever benefit from.

So, she lets them both settle into silence as she follows the motorway bound for Birmingham. The morning is a clear one; heading out of London the traffic is mercifully light and they make better than expected progress. There's little to distract her beside the odd, hard-shoulder break down; or the occasionally small fury animal darting out in front of her car only to be mercilessly smashed into the hot tar mac.

"You heard from Lucas?" asks Ben, out of the blue.

Her reply is snippier than she intends it to be. "Should I have?"

Her private life is exactly that – private. But, after a few minutes, knowing that Ben will not dare mention the man's name again, she alters her stance.

"It's all right, Ben," she says, tightening her grip on the steering wheel. "You mean, since he saw his Asset get shot last night?"

Inwardly, she chides herself for being wound up and paranoid. The fact is, everyone has been worried about Lucas. Ben gradually uncoils, like a hedgehog coming out of hiding.

"That's what I meant," he clarifies. "I wasn't … you know … fishing. I just heard about the shooting."

"Fishing. Shooting. It's all fun and games in this job," she mutters, relaxing again. "He's blaming himself, of course. But Harry's with him; Harry will look after him."

She knows Lucas isn't made of glass. She knows he can take a knock; God knows, Russia has given him nerves of pure asbestos. It's after the event, when there's room to breathe; time to reflect, that Lucas lets himself fall. That, in this case, will be right now.

"I don't see how he can blame himself," Ben says, giving a shrug. "The guy panicked on comms, answered the invisible voice in his head right in front of the targets."

Ros sighs. "I know; I know," she says, pressing down on the accelerator and moving into the fast lane. "Just assure me, you'll keep your nerve when you're in this Mosque, dealing with these people. Don't do anything rash and use the code word if you want us to get you out of there."

The information Ben might be able to get is of utmost importance to the whole operation; they both know it – especially now that Lucas has lost his Asset within the EDA and the only way they can watch the English extremists is through watching the Islamic extremists. The pressure is immense; combined with the tension of the infiltration, it could cause even the best to crack.

"I'll be fine, Ros," he assures her. "Nothing I haven't done before," he adds, resisting the urge to wink at her.

They reach Birmingham sooner than expected. A vast, grey sprawl of a city; second only to London in size, they don't find themselves at a loose end for long. Instead, they find themselves outside the plush, middle class parental home of their potential asset, Mahdi for twitchy future Jihadist.

"I'll be waiting at the end of the street," says Ros, watching him closely as he gets out of the car.

He nods his understanding and turns to the semi-detached house. The lawn is neat and a pristine Range Rover sits idle in the lose gravelled drive way. It's never seen a dirt track in its entire existence. Without dawdling too long, Ben rings the doorbell and waits patiently for an answer. It doesn't matter if no one's in; they'll just return to the Mosque and wait there. However, after a minute or two, the front door is opened by a small woman still in her quilted dressing gown and carpet slippers. She looks at him as if she's been caught out and hovers behind the protective barrier of her door.

"Sorry for the interruption, Mrs Mahmoud," says Ben. "My name's Imran; I'm a friend of Mahdi's from college and I wondered if he might be in? Y'know, thought we could walk in together – we've both got the same lecture in an hour."

The worry in Mrs Mahmoud's face dissolves into something almost like relief. "Oh really!" she exclaims, all wide-eyed smiles. "I was every so worried; he didn't seem to be settling in at all well-" she breaks off, realising she's probably said too much. But Ben smiles to reassure her. "Do you want to come in?" she asks.

Ben's smile widens. "That'll be lovely, thank you."

She opens the door wide to admit him, points to the open kitchen door before pattering up the stairs calling her son's name. While he waits, he takes in the surroundings. From the photos fixed to the fridge door by magnets, he notices Mahdi is the only child these people seem to have. No brothers or sisters; not settling in at his new college; parents worried about him. Seems a classic case of latching on to the first group of people who accept him.

When he turns back to the doorway, Mahdi is there. Hastily dressed in a pair of black jeans, he's failed to put on a shirt. His full scrawniness is on full display. His face falls when he sees Ben.

"You're not who I was expecting," he says. "Do I even know you?"

"Keep your voice down," Ben replies. "Don't want Mummy over-hearing. And, er, no, we don't know each other. But, we will do. Don't worry."

Mahdi casts a look over his bony shoulder, making sure the coast is clear of his mother, before swooping down on the kitchen table, where Ben has made himself at home.

"What's this about?" he asks, leaning in close.

Ben raises a winning smile. "Tell you what," he suggests. "Put the kettle on, make us a nice cup of tea, and tell me all about your new friends at the Mosque."

The boy looks scandalised. The effrontery has left him speechless, but at the same time, he realises he's cornered. In too deep already, he cannot kick up a fuss. Instead, he finds himself complying; filling the kettle and fetching two cups from the cupboard.

"You're MI5, aren't you?" he says, his voice barely a whisper. "You've been watching us-"

"Actually, no we haven't," Ben cuts him off. "Well, we have, but we didn't put that bug in the skirting board. Your friend, Abdul Khareem put it there himself and pretended we did it. Seriously, our bugs are not that easy to find!" he laughs, for effect more than of genuine hilarity. He stops, turns to look at Mahdi, who's looking back at him as he waits for the kettle to boil. In all earnestness, he adds: "He's playing you all like puppets, and from what I've seen, you already know that."

Mahdi exhales slowly; his eyes closed in resignation. He's been caught at the Mosque, he knows MI5 have the proof. He knows he has no real choice but to play by their rules, now. He sits down opposite Ben, the tea seemingly forgotten. "You need to get Abdul Khareem," he states. "I don't know much, but he's definitely the one in charge, now. Ever since the Imam was murdered."

Ben sits back and regards his new Asset with curiosity. That's the problem with those who're only looking for acceptance; they're so easy to break.

* * *

Four dull mornings sat behind the desk of the English Nationalists Party is the price Ruth pays for her final opportunity to do some real digging. It comes as she's making tea and coffee for Dougie and his colleagues in the small kitchenette. As she draws water from the geyser she hears him falling into step behind her. She pauses to listen – trying to gage his mood – almost scalding herself as the cup overflows.

"Watch out," he says, carefully taking it from her. "You can get pretty nasty burns from that."

Ruth manages a smile. "You startled me," she replies, running her burned finger under cold water. "Busy day ahead?"

"Actually yes. We're having this cuppa then we're off to Brixton for the day. Canvassing for the election."

She pauses, getting hopeful. "All of you?"

He sighs, shoots her an apologetic look. "I know it's a big ask, Leanne," he says, fishing tea bags out of an earthenware jar, carefully brushing his hand against hers as he reaches across her. She tries not to recoil. "You don't mind manning the station here until one of us gets back? John Reynolds is due at eleven. You won't be alone for long."

It's perfect, but she's careful to dissemble and dissemble again. "It's fine, honestly," she assures him, drying off her hands and preparing to help carry the teas out to the waiting party members. "It's quiet in the mornings anyway. I suspect boredom will be the biggest problem, with you not here." As she says it, she pauses to look up at him. He's blushing, smirking even and it makes her laugh.

Ruth's knocked out the security cameras before he's even out the door. When he does leave, he gives her a wink as he locks his office door. Turning back to her computer, she switches it to the CCTV – switched on, but recording nothing - and watches until their cars are out of sight; gives them ten more minutes to get swallowed up by the London traffic, then locks the front door.

Alone at last, she takes out the small, standard issue lock picking device and lets herself into Simpson's office. It's the largest one in the office, but still rather cramped. On his desk is a sprawl of papers and samples of election leaflets that have yet to be given the nod of approval. Pens, paperclips and ordinary office bits and bobs are scattered about. Ruth tuts at the total lack of proper organisation and opens up a filing cabinet. The top drawer holds little of interest; just applications for party membership from ordinary members of the public. The party message may be odious, but as a democratic nation, they can do nothing to stop people joining or voting for them. Ruth disregards them and opens the second drawer. Party members already approved. Again, they are members of the public. Once their file has been processed onto the system, their paper files will be shredded. Again, no one of interest.

She reaches the third drawer and hits the jackpot. Carl Winters still has his own paper file, but when Ruth pulls it out, it doesn't contain anything new. However, on the back of a large, black and white photograph of him – similar to the one Ros left on her desk the previous day – are the words "Operation Mirage". It means nothing to her, but is enough to set her suspicions soaring. She sets the file aside and keeps rummaging. Turning up nothing else worthy of consideration, she turns on Simpson's computer. Unsurprisingly, it is password protected and she must insert a small pen drive which contains software that gets around the security and hacks the computer open, regardless.

Once inside, she runs a thorough search of the computer, for anything containing the words "Operation Mirage", resulting in three different files. Before giving in to her burning curiosity, she copies the location address for each file on the computer's hard drive; making it easier for her if ever she needs to hack Simpson's computer from her station at The Grid and see if he's made any changes. Then, she copies each file as it currently is on to her own pen drive. She knows she can change nothing on these files on Simpson's computer, the file properties will record the changes and blow her cover if ever Simpson checked them.

She gives a decisive click of her mouse on the first and several windows pop up at once. The first shows a photograph of a young Muslim man, roughly late twenties with a full beard and a white, ceremonial headscarf. White; a local man, a convert – the worst kind of Muslim for a man like Douglas Simpson and his ilk. Her heartbeat quickens, a feeling of nausea washing over her as she reads the name typed over the bottom of the picture: Abdul Khareem. His home address in Birmingham is detailed at the bottom of the file page. A hit-list of Muslims to be murdered – it's the first logical theory that jumps into her head. She clicks the 'next' button, and another picture of Carl Winters pops up, displaying some personal information: height, date of birth and an address in Birmingham – the same as Abdul Khareem's. Ruth frowns in concentration; squinting her eyes as she re-opens the page with the picture of Khareem.

Ruth closes her eyes for a full minute and kneads at a knot of tension building in her temple. Taking deep breaths, she lets her mind go blank as if slipping into a meditative state. What she wants to do is look again at the information in front of her as if from a fresh perspective. When she opens her eyes, she blinks as though her swirling thoughts had now begun to distort her vision. She minimises both of the pictures, moves them so they are side by side and she can compare them to each other.

She remembers the shaving cut on Winters' face in the footage Lucas had taken, then looks at the full beard of Khareem. She sees the sandy, fair hair – almost ginger – on both of them, but on Khareem, it is almost covered by his head gear. The identical, steel-grey eyes stare out at her from the monitor. "What the hell are you playing at?" she whispers, looking from one face to the other, seeing for the first time that Carl Winters, the English Nationalist extremist and Abdul Khareem, the Islamic jihadist, are one and the same person.

* * *

Harry frowns at Lucas from across the small sitting room. The curtains are drawn against the bright, summer sunshine. The silence only broken by the ticking on the mantle clock. The air of foreboding is thick and uncomfortable. "You mustn't blame yourself," Harry says, making a concerted effort to help his Senior Case Officer. But, if he's said it once, he's said it a hundred times. Still Lucas sits on his sofa, trembling as he lifts his mug of hot, sweet tea to his lips. He blows on it, sets it down and makes no effort at even a sip.

"I startled him, Harry," Lucas replies, nervously rubbing at his temples. "If I had kept my mouth shut, he would have been able to talk his way out of the shit. I know he would. He had the gift of the gab, right enough."

Harry sets his mug down on the coffee table and leans in closer. "As with such people, he was as good at talking himself in to trouble, as out of it," he said, keeping his tone even. "We all heard the recordings, Lucas. He panicked. It happens a lot; especially under such pressure."

Lucas is still trembling as he runs a hand through his hair – growing back since he shaved it almost all off a few weeks previously. A deep breath, then he lifts his face to look back at his boss for the first time since he arrived late that morning. "I'll be all right, Harry," he says, trying to sound it. "It's just that-"

He's interrupted by Harry's phone ringing. He lifts it out and ends the call. "It's Ruth," he states. "I'll call her back later, once this is dealt with and you've agreed to try and get some sleep."

Lucas laughs, realises he must be bloody important if he's rejected a call from Ruth, just for him. But he knows it's guilt; guilt at having left him languishing for almost a decade in a Russian prison cell. Left him to the tender mercies of the likes of Oleg Desharvin and Arkady Kachimov; tortured for information about things of which he knew precisely nothing. Harry's been trying to make amends, looking for opportunities to prove he still cares; still has that human compassion and now all that frustrated paternalism is being lavished on Lucas in just one morning. He tries to smile, to show him he holds Harry no animosity. "I'll be fine," he says, lacking any real conviction.

* * *

Dougie Simpson carries the bouquet of flowers to the front door and sets them down on the door step of the house. She will find them when she comes home; probably after collecting her son from his granny's house. He tries to picture the look on Leanne's face when she sees them, but his imagination will not travel so far. Instead, he's assaulted by a last minute doubt: will somebody nick them? He looks around at the empty street. Empty, that is, beside the neighbour in the front yard fidgeting with an old car engine.

"Here, mate," he calls over to the man. "D'you reckon I can leave these here for Leanne?"

The neighbour looks up from his work, his expression creased by a deep frown. "Who?"

"Leanne; the woman who lives here," he explains, cursing the breakdown in society, where neighbours no longer knew each other's name.

The man simply shrugs. "They'll be wilted by the time she gets back," he says, hunching back over the engine. "Honestly only seen her twice since she moved in."

He goes to ask more, but stops himself. Walking over to the window, he peers inside for any sign of life. He's only been here once, the first time he met her. But now, on the return visit, he notices it's oddly empty for a woman with a child. The toys are gone; even a lot of the pictures have been taken down. His breath clouds the glass and he steps away, walking around the back. Once there, he breaks a window and steps on the upturned bin to climb inside.

He finds himself in the kitchen. A kitchen like any other. Inside the fridge, he finds frozen meals for one. The cupboards are almost bare, as though no one lives there at all. In the waste bin, there is only a scrap of card. The card that he gave her, the one with his phone number. On the back, is another number written along with a date and time. He frowns at it, taps it against his forefinger, then places it to one side to continue his search of Leanne's house.

The bedrooms are bare. There is no child's bedroom, and it dawns on him that there isn't really a child. His heartbeat quickens; his face flushing as he senses some serious double dealing. He looks down at his hand, holds it out in front of him and sees that he is shaking. He sighs and flops down onto the top step of the stairs while explanations race through his head. She's moving again; she's under no obligation to tell him these things. Or maybe she's a minimalist. An extreme minimalist.

He knows he's being a fool. He gets up again and returns to the kitchen. He lifts the card and dials the number written in black eye-liner. Breathing heavily as the phone rings, he forces himself to relax.

"Good afternoon, Concerto Restaurant," the girl's voice chimes in his ear.

He thinks fast. "Oh, hello there," he says, pacing three steps forwards and three steps back. "I hate to trouble you, but I was wondering about a booking made there last week, at seven thirty on the Saturday evening? It's my wife you see, I think she's having an affair and I need to check up. Her name's Leanne Jenkins."

He can almost feel the waves of embarrassment oozing down the telephone line, but he's beyond caring. All he wants is the truth, whatever it may be.

"We only had a booking for one Ruth Evershed at that time and on that date," the girl answers and he breathes a sigh of relief. It's not Leanne; it can't be. Just something she organised for a friend. "The meal was paid for by credit card, in the name of Sir Harry Pearce."

He goes numb. In that instant, his body stiffens with the impact of the name, Sir Harry Pearce. All politicians know of him, even if they don't know him personally. What is it they all say? Sir Harry Pearce: stalking the corridors of power, spreading good cheer. They all know what he does, and who for. Dougie knows then, the truth hits him as it all suddenly falls into place. "Leanne" indeed. He replaces the telephone receiver without looking, missing a few times before he tears the damn thing clean off the wall. He lifts out his mobile and scrolls down to the name, John Reynolds. "John, it's Dougie," he speaks monotone. "Is Leanne there? … Oh, good, good… No, I don't want to speak with her just yet, tell her I'll see her in ten minutes." He smiles as though his colleague can see him and terminates the call.

* * *

**Apologies for such a long winded chapter, but so much needed to happen here. Anyway, thanks for bearing with me on this, and reviews would be appreciated!**


	10. Ruthless

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read this story, and especially those who reviewed (Guest reviewers – thank you, too.) The usual disclaimers apply; I own none of this. Reviews, as always, would be very welcome. Thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Ten: Ruthless**

Pressing her ear to the door of the office's dining area, Ruth doesn't even dare to breathe as she listens to the conversation happening just a few feet away. John Reynolds is out there, talking on his mobile phone to Dougie Simpson; one half of a heated conversation that ends abruptly, disappointingly for Ruth. With the other man distracted, Ruth steps into the kitchenette behind the partition and slips her own mobile out. She scrolls rapidly through the list of names, not stopping until she reaches "Harry Pearce" and pauses for just an infinitesimal second before hitting the call button. Is the red flash justified; or is she being paranoid?

Deciding she would rather be safe than sorry, she hits the call button. Following a brief pause during which the line crackles into life, it begins ringing shrilly. Waiting for Harry to answer, Ruth begins to pace the linoleum floor, careful not to make too much noise.

"Come on, Harry. Come on," she breathes impatiently.

But the phone rings … and rings again, before going straight to voicemail. She suppresses the urge to scream in frustration, instead channelling her energies into phoning Malcolm. She breathes a sigh of relief as the ringing stops, hears him clearing his throat on the other end of the line, and cuts him off before he can even say 'hello'.

"Red flash the entire team, Malcolm, it's urgent," she says in a rush. "There's something not right here, too. If I'm not back on the Grid in an hour, send in the cavalry."

"Ruth, is everything all right?" he asks, sounding worried.

Before she answers, Ruth tries to remain rational. "Yes, Malcolm, everything's fine," she eventually replies. "But listen, something's going on here and I need to find out what it is before I brief the team. Get everyone there as soon as possible."

"But, Ruth-"

"Not now, Malcolm," she cuts off. "Just do it."

Without further ado, she hangs up. Normally, she would never be so abrupt, but time is something she sorely lacks and the enemy is pacing around outside the door of the small dining area. Phoning Malcolm at all had been risky enough.

Her bag, now containing files relating to Operation Mirage, lies by the side of the refrigerator. She picks it up and slings it over her right shoulder; her jacket folded over her left. She steels herself before re-entering the Reception area, where Reynolds still paces. He stops, however, when he sees her ready to leave.

"He wants to see you, Leanne," he says, shrugging his shoulders. "He told me to tell you to wait."

Ruth smiles, but her tone is firm. "Well, I can't," she states. "My mother in law rang and she needs me to collect my son."

Already, he has manoeuvred himself between Ruth and the door that leads onto the street outside. The bulk of his body blocking her way out. She cannot go forward, so sidesteps him – a move he mirrors, not letting her budge an inch.

"Can you stand aside, please?" she asks, realising for the first time proper that she only reaches this man's chest. His shoulder is literally eye-level. Unconsciously, she grips her bag shut. If he should catch even a small glimpse of it, he will kill her.

"I said, you have got to wait here," he replies slow and firm, like he's talking to a recalcitrant toddler. "Simpson wants to see you. He was most insistent."

She can see the cars passing in the street behind the door; shoppers passing by without looking. Even if they did, what would they see? Two people standing in an office and talking face to face. It doesn't look at all suspicious. She estimates the distance, a yard … maybe two; before she would be out of that door. But the obstacle before her seems immovable. At that moment, when he sees her looking towards the street, he positions his hands on his hips as thought trying to make himself even wider.

Ruth backs down, taking a reverse step. "All right," she says, letting her bag slide down from her shoulder. "I can wait." Carefully, she nudges the bag under the desk, well out of sight.

* * *

The curtains are still drawn in Lucas North's living room. Only a pallid half-light seeps through the heavy fabric, making the room dusky and glutinous. He checks his watch; almost one o'clock and he's not even nearly ready to leave. His jaw line is dark with the imminent threat of stubble, but at least he's dressed, now. Inwardly, he chides himself into action and looks across the room at Harry Pearce. The other man's face is inscrutable, but Lucas can imagine what he's thinking. That he's losing it; that he's unravelling, again. That he shouldn't even be in the service. Then his optimistic side kicks in: he's being paranoid, he can still prove himself to his boss; still be the sharpest Spook in the ether they inhabit.

Distracting himself, he swirls the dregs of his tea in the bottom of the cup.

"I'll be all right, Harry," he says, watching the mini whirlpool form in the cup before knocking it back in one final gulp. He tries to smile as he adds: "Just having a drama queen moment. I'm fine now. I can come back to work."

Harry regards him over his steepled hands. "I don't think-"

"Harry, please," Lucas cuts him off, "I was upset, but now we've talked, I am fine again. I understand what went wrong; why he was murdered and I know I wasn't to blame."

Lucas was rather fond of his cockney rebel Asset; his death hit him hard. Harry, for his part, shifts from inscrutable, to cautious.

"If you're telling me that because you think it's what I want to hear-"

"I'm not," he insists.

Harry relaxes, but still looks far from convinced. "Very well. But the first sign of a wobble, and I'm sending you straight home again and you'll be signed off for the rest of the week."

Lucas realises it's as good a compromise as he can expect and rushes to get himself ready for a return to the Grid before Harry can change his mind. Barely twenty minutes to wash, dress and shave before they're in the car and bound for Thames House. The traffic along Bayswater Road is a nightmare: tail back and grid locked; car horns blaring out every other minute accompanied by the angry shouts of frustrated commuters. Lucas shuts the window in an attempt to bring some peace to their sluggish journey.

Inside the car, however, conversation has died a death as they both strain to see what's causing the delays. Far down the rows of glittering people carriers and Chelsea tractors, Lucas can just make out the dreaded roadwork cones. Workmen, used to the shouts and oaths of angry drivers, merely amble along at their own pace, pushing wheelbarrows around as though it were nothing more than a walk in the gardens. Either that, or they're getting paid by the hour.

"You got back to Ruth yet?" Lucas asks Harry, if only to fill the void that this journey has created.

The reminder of Ruth's calls comes like a volt of electricity to Harry, who gives a start and a gasp as he grapples for his phone. Lucas gives a lopsided grin as Harry seems to have just set his progress with Ruth two steps backwards. Unlike the traffic, which is finally inching forwards. He presses down cautiously on the accelerator as Harry jabs at the call button on his mobile. He hangs up a minute later, just as the traffic comes to a standstill again.

"No luck?" he asks, glancing to his right.

"No answer, just voicemail and I hate talking to those damn machines," replies Harry.

"How admirably old-school of you," Lucas rejoins, teasing him playfully.

But, Harry's mood remains serious. "She's still at the E.N.P's offices," he points out.

"Call them," he suggests. "She's answering their phones, isn't she?"

"Too risky," he counters. "Better still, take the next right turn, get out of these interminable road works and drive past the offices – let's see if we notice anything?"

* * *

"It's half one, Ben," Ros points out, even though he's already been checking the clock every five minutes for the past hour. "Time to move."

"Right you are, boss," he replies, turning the keys in the ignition of the van. They've both been on tenterhooks waiting for this Op to begin.

The Mosque is close by, but they've been keeping their distance lest anyone should take any undue interest in their whereabouts. Slowly, Ben manoeuvres the bulky vehicle up the side street that leads to the rear of the Mosque and stops by the back gates, next to two large bins. They jump out, careful to go unseen as they move to the rear of the van and rap on the doors. Sounds of scuffling emanate from within, moments late and Mahdi appears, dressed for sermon with a hidden mic concealed under the scarf and an ear piece already in place.

Ros stands back, regarding their new Asset from a small distance. Her expression, like Harry Pearce at his most reticent, is completely inscrutable. She looks him up and down, to the point where Ben can tell he feels like he's been placed under a microscope. Eventually, she speaks, revealing the reason for her extra vigilance.

"Whatever you do – whatever you hear over your earpiece – don't panic," she advises. "They cannot hear us talking to you, not even remotely. It's not like that annoying idiot on the bus who has his mp3 player on full blast, inadvertently sharing his musical tastes with everyone else. It's silent as the grave to others."

Mahdi is visibly relieved. "I don't have to talk back in no codes or nothing?"

A flicker of alarm mars Ros's face. "Under no circumstances talk back to us," she warns, keeping her tone even – careful not to alarm the boy. "Even if you've misheard us, or need something repeating. Say nothing and let us worry about the rest."

Ben gives him a hand getting out of the van, giving his arm a squeeze for reassurance. "Just act completely naturally and you'll be fine," he says. "Its early days. Don't try and ask leading questions or fish for information just yet."

Ros nods in agreement. "Let yourself get used to it," she advises further. "The more advanced stuff can come later."

Ben raises a reassuring smile. "Everything clear?"

Mahdi nods. "Clear."

The pep talk over, both Ben and Ros watch as he walks back the way they just came, round the front of the Mosque, until he's lost from view. Alone together, they get in the back of the van, the place where Mahdi once occupied and get their equipment working, ready for the meeting about to take place inside the Mosque. It's cramped inside, but they can just about hunker down together, stooped against the low ceiling.

However, Ben has more than that on his mind as his new, untried and untested, Asset prepares to make his first foray in to the world of espionage. "D' you think he'll be all right?" he asks, looking at Ros as she lifts her earpiece.

She's thinking along the same lines as he is; he can tell. With the murder of Lucas's last Asset, after just one moment of panicked, unguarded chatter, they're all worried about their own. Ordinary members of the public thrown into the thick of a snake pit, no training, no testing and little prior warning, could see the toughest, most streetwise, break.

Ros, however, tries to sound confident. "If he listened to us, he'll be fine, Ben."

He wishes he could share in her confidence, especially as Mahdi's voice sounds over their earpieces. "Sorry I'm late, Brothers," he says, excusing his tardiness caused by their last minute talk. "Good to see you, Khareem… How's it going, Ahmed?"

He's discreetly naming them all so Ros and Ben can quickly make note of who's in attendance. They exchange a glance, Ros raising a brow, giving a nod of approval. Once more, Ben checks the red light on the recorder, making sure it's fully working. A nervous habit gained from prior embarrassing technical faults. Ros rolls her eyes in mock exasperation; a gesture he returns with a sheepish grin before homing in on the conversation in the Mosque.

The silence in the van thickens as Khareem's voice comes over the sound system.

"We have the explosives, all we need now are targets. Where do we make our last stand?"

"What about that TV debate?" Mahdi asks. "I thought we were going to take out the party leaders?"

The pause stretches itself out. "Security will be tight. It's a question of getting it in there," Khareem replies, at length.

"We can get ourselves outside the building though, surely?" Ahmed chimes in.

It sounds as if they were all hoping to hit the main party leaders.

This time, it's Ros who speaks – directly to Mahdi. "Tell them the party leaders will all be staying at The Embassy Hotel in London, suggest it as a target."

Over the speakers, Mahdi echoes her words, relaying the information to a thoughtful silence. Ben looks at her askance. She covers her mic and speaks to him direct. "Lure the bombers there and we take them all out. We can evacuate well before they arrive and by the time they notice anything wrong, it'll be too damn late. CO19 will be providing the welcome committee."

"I hope you know what you're doing," he whispers quietly, so that only she can hear.

Back in the Mosque, feelings are running high.

"You can prove this, Mahdi?" asks Ahmed. "How do you know?"

Ros is quick with an answer to feed them. "Tell them your Cousin works for their events team. She's organising the whole thing. Tell them her name is Amira Kendra."

Mahdi doesn't miss a beat as he parrots the information and Ros smiles over at Ben approvingly. She gives him a quick thumbs up; making him flush rather uncharacteristically at her rare show of approval. The meeting inside the Mosque concludes, but with no firm agreement on the target. Ros removes her earpiece, frowning once more. "We need to get back to Thames House and get to work on Mahdi's fictional Cousin. We need to give him the proof he needs."

Ben shrugs and follows suit. "It'll be easy enough, but you go. I'll stay here and take care of business. I still want to get in there myself."

Ros pauses, mid-way through packing up. "Are you sure?" she asks.

He shrugs again. "I'll be fine!"

* * *

Ruth is back in the kitchen when Simpson arrives. She freezes, standing at the sink pretending to wash cups, when she hears the buzzer sounding, alerting his arrival. Greetings are exchanged with John Reynolds, who still paces the Reception area, making sure she doesn't get away. She draws a deep breath as she hears the words "she's in the kitchen" being spoken to Simpson. She tries to busy herself with the task at hand as she listens to his footsteps drawing nearer, coming to a halt in the doorway.

She turns around at the last minute, acting as though she hadn't noticed his arrival. But when she sees him obstructing the doorway, she takes an instinctive backward step. "I didn't hear you coming," she says, breezily. "Would you like tea?"

He nods, but doesn't speak.

"I thought you were going to be in Brixton all day," she says, casting around for any subject of idle chatter. "It's been a busy morning, actually. The phone didn't stop ringing the whole time you were gone. What about you?" she asks, turning to glance over her shoulder as she fetches two mugs from the cupboard. "Been busy?"

He's looking at her impassively, just a trace of a frown darkening his brow. "Very busy," he flatly states. "Thanks for asking, Ruth."

Inwardly, her heartbeat doubles, jarring painfully against her ribs. Outwardly, she arranges her face into an expression of utmost calm, if slightly bewildered.

"Sorry?" she says, turning to face him once more. "Is Ruth one of your girlfriends, or something?" she laughs.

Her humour, on this occasion, is not infectious.

"Your real name is Ruth; you are close to Sir Harry Pearce and you and I both know you work for MI5," explains, revealing her to herself. "He bought you dinner; he sent you here. Tell me how I have this wrong? Tell me how you can explain this?"

Ruth draws a deep breath. Letting her eyes brim with tears, she turns back to the kitchen sink and tries to carry on making the tea. She fumbles with the cups, stifling sobs as she goes. She fills one cup with near boiling water from the geyser.

"Dougie," she chokes, between sobs, carefully handling the brimming cup. "Please, listen to me," she adds, letting her voice quake with emotion. "I need you to understand and … " she breaks off, as she looks from the cup in her hand to him, with one firm jerk of her wrist, the cup and its contents are spilled down his middle and his crotch – causing him to cry out in pain and recoil against the scalding burn. "Get out of my fucking way!" she finishes her sentence with no more pretence at pathetic sobs.

She shoves him violently as she darts past, fleeing into the Reception where a stunned John Reynolds is barely getting his wits together. Thinking Simpson had everything in hand, he is caught off-guard so Ruth seizes the advantage and gives him a swift punch in the throat to temporarily disable him as she passes. Her way to the door is clear, but she almost runs through the plate glass before she wrenches it open.

Once out in the street, she lets herself pause to catch her breath. Fear, panic and a nauseating chill grip her properly once she's out of harm's way. Her step is like that of a drunkard's as she meanders down the busy street, tears of fear springing to her eyes for real as the shock wears off and the real danger of what just happened begins to sink in. So much so, she barely notices the car screeching to a halt at her side.

"Ruth!"

She stops, turns to see both Harry and Lucas scrambling out of the vehicle, rushing up to her.

"Harry!" she gasps, realising that her bag is left behind. She rushes up to him, grips his sturdy arms for support. "Get my bag out of there!"

"Ruth, calm down. Tell me what happened," he tries to calm her, knowing they're getting quizzical looks from passers by.

Lucas, however, is quick off the mark. "Harry, come on," he grabs at Harry as he runs back up the street towards the Office. Ruth follows them both at a distance, reluctant to go back in there. However, by the time she makes it back, Lucas has his gun drawn, pointed at Reynolds who's still in Reception, nursing his bruised throat.

"That crazy bitch nearly killed me!" he protests, pointing at Ruth in disgust.

The four of them stand there, each eyeing the other with deepest suspicion. Harry, however, is low on patience. "You can tell us all about it in our hospitality suite," he remarks, reaching for his mobile phone to call for back up. "And your little friend there," he adds, jerking his head towards Simpson, still reeling from the scalding water Ruth threw over him.

Ruth catches her breath again, moves carefully around Lucas to retrieve her bag containing the files about Operation Mirage and hands it to Harry. "I red flashed the team," she whispers in his ear. "It's bad, Harry. Really bad."


	11. Give 'em Enough Rope

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Usual disclaimers apply and I own none of this. Thanks again for reading. Reviews most welcome.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Give 'Em Enough Rope**

The sound of the pods sliding open intrudes upon the morning paperwork. Harry looks up, pen still poised to scrawl his signature, waiting to see who it is. He thinks he knows. He'd bet his life savings on it. Earlier than the others; he could picture her stopping to hang up her coat and looking forward to a nice cup of tea before the storm broke. Sometimes, he wonders why he bothers.

"I thought I told you to take the morning off?" he calls out to Ruth as she passes into the kitchen, dodging into the darkened Grid and hoping her presence would go unnoticed.

He isn't angry, though. He peers through the open door with an amused smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Ruth looks sheepish as she moves to the door, pressing her against the frame. She is paler than usual, eyes lined with the mark of a sleepless night. The shoulder of her summer dress slightly askew, revealing more collar bone to the left as she leaned inside.

"Harry, I'm fine," she sought to assure him. "Honestly."

He looks again at her pale skin, the dark circles under her eyes that had him imagining her tossing and turning all night. Why hadn't she called him? He knew the answer: she didn't want him worrying; didn't want him to think her unequal to the task. So, on went the armour. This job would be the death of them both, but it was useless to argue. He lets it slide. "As long as you're sure," he replies, getting to his feet to join her for a cup of tea.

Their silence is companionable as the kettle boils, water decanted into old mugs and sugar stirred into the mix. But she has that look on her face, that look when she's waiting for the right moment to ask a big ask. His shoulders slump as he lifts the mug and leans against the far wall, watching her curiously as she potters about.

"Out with it," he says, amused.

Ruth stops, making him think she's going to rush a denial.

"I want to speak with Simpson-"

"No," he cuts her off, alarmed at the very suggestion. Her mouth drops open, a precursor to her appeals and reason; he shuts her off quickly. "You've played your part; you've played it exceptionally well. But your involvement in that man is now over. It makes me sick to think what could have happened if Lucas and I hadn't turned up when we did-"

"I'd already escaped!" she protests. "Harry, you're being unreasonable. I just want to ask a few questions and after today's meeting you'll understand why."

He stands down, metaphorically, and takes a measured breath. Simpson cannot harm her anymore; he cannot lay a finger on her and he's about to be exposed as a double-dealing, demi-terrorist with, thanks to MI5, some serious cash squirrelled away in the Cayman Islands. Bang goes the "man of the people" image he's so carefully cultivated for himself. But having Ruth placed in the firing line for so long has made him all the more protective of her safety now. He raises a brow, moves to stand beside her and circles her waist with his free arm. "Best get ready for the meeting, then," he says, nuzzling a quick kiss against her throat. Professionalism be damned, but only for a second.

* * *

Lucas pauses outside Thames House, leaning against the whitewash walls to avoid obstructing the early morning flow of human traffic as it sweeps towards the nearby financial district. To avoid looking like a loiterer, he flips his mobile open and pretends to be reading text messages, pressing at the scroll button but occasionally glancing up, checking for signs of familiarity in the passing stream of people. He checks his watch, the hour hand inching towards nine. About to give up and go in alone, he finally spots her. Ros manoeuvring her way through the throng with tactical, discreet use of elbows. Having not seen her since before his ordeal down by the dockside, he doesn't try to stop the relief washing over him as she gets closer. An easy smile plays across his face as he takes the final step towards her himself.

She stops, appraising him closely for a minute – checking for cracks? Surely, not Ros.

"I'm all right," he tells pointedly tells her.

A brief flush of pink steals into her cheeks, quickly gone as she catches herself on.

"Of course you are," she replies, giving herself a quick shake. For a moment, they look each other in the eye, inching closer as though about to kiss. But then, she sidesteps him, heading towards the door. "Nearly late," she speaks over her shoulder, casting him a mock reproving look.

The wait for Ros has cost him his early morning cup of tea. A fact that sinks in painfully as he's called, along with everyone else, straight into the meeting room. His path to the kitchen cut off by impatient bark of Harry Pearce calling him to heel. Ros glances at him apologetically as they enter the room together and take their seats, side by side.

Everyone had gotten wind of Ruth's near miss. Many worried glances were cast in her direction as she took her own place, beside Harry at the head of the table. Lucas, however, made a point not to gawp. Instead, he leaned to the left to confer privately with Ros. "Wait till you hear this," he whispered, careful to keep his voice low and his eyes trained on the surface of the table. "It's a swirling vortex of utter mind-fuckery."

Ros gapes for a second, turning to Lucas to ask for clarification. However, her words are drowned out as Ruth speaks.

"Apologies for dragging you all in here the moment you walked through the door," she said, opening up the meeting sheepishly. As if they are not all used to much worse from Harry Pearce. "But, things have changed. While undercover at the English Nationalist Party I was able to obtain a file on something they called Operation Mirage. It turns out that our friend at the Mosque, Abdul Khareem, is in fact an undercover member of the English Defence Association; better known to us as Carl Winters."

This piece of information is met with a stunned silence, broken only by Ros's sigh of frustration. Meanwhile, Harry clicks a button, causing the screen behind him to flare into life. On it, there are two pictures, side by side. Both the same man, just with different dress and a large beard. Just the smallest of changes, but with a staggering difference. Lucas recalls the one occasion he met Winters, at a meeting above a bar in East London. He remembers the shaving cut; the slight rash along the jawline. It explained Winters's long absences; why no one ever saw him. He was hiding in a West Midlands Mosque, pretending to be a Muslim.

Beside him, Ros is still fidgeting, suppressing the adrenaline these revelations always brought out in her. "Winters shot the Cleric, didn't he?" she says, unable to hold her peace any longer. Lucas had almost forgotten about the murder of Imam Atallah, in front of the Home Secretary and almost gunning down Ros in the process.

At the other end of the table, Ruth nods. "I was just coming to that," she replies. "Detailed in the file are plans for the assassination of Imam Atallah. Winters infiltrated the Mosque by posing as a convert. Once inside, he gained the trust of the Imam by pretending that his Islamophobic family had turned him out on the streets. They took him in, gave him shelter and made him one of their own. He spent months worming his way inside; all the while, taking instructions from Doug Simpson behind the scenes."

She pauses, letting the information to sink in. The silence was uncomfortable as each person present processed the implications.

"What did he hope to achieve?" asks Lucas. "He kills the Imam; then everyone blames the English Defence Association, which they duly did. Why would he tarnish his own organisation's 'righteous cause' like that?"

Ros provides the answer. "For retaliation," she says, giving a quick shrug. "It's simple. All they have to do is pick off one moderate Muslim who's popular with the community. That's enough to scare the wits out of them all. The murder of a moderate turns those hovering on the brink into full on extremists and retaliation is guaranteed."

"So, Winters is a double dealing war-monger," Lucas summarises. "And now he has a great shipment of explosives winging its way over to Birmingham as we speak."

Jo frowns as she leans across the desk. "He's organised and executed the murder, so now he's organising and executing the retaliation too?" she asks, evidently struggling to get it straight in her own head. "Or is he planting the bombs under his EDA front?"

Harry had remained uncharacteristically silent throughout the meeting. But following Jo's question, he sits back in his seat and mulls it over in his head. His expression is unfathomable, delving uncomfortably into the mind of a man who can seemingly fight for both sides. Lucas has already tried it and given it up as a bad job. Instead, he – like the rest of Section D – watch their boss in a state of heightened anxiety.

"Think about it," Harry finally says, giving his pen a rhythmic tap against the table. "He's inciting a war and he's inciting it on both sides. He's trying to drag this country into racial war by giving the Muslim community enough rope to hang themselves-"

"If the Muslims follow Winters in carrying out this atrocity," Lucas says, unintentionally talking over his boss. "Then they've more than justified the EDA's reason for existing. People will flock to join them; money will be thrown at the likes of Douglas Simpson and his band of merry fascists. Everyone's a winner, despite the enormous risk Carl Winters is taking."

Jo buries her face in her hands, trying to take it all in. Beside her, Ben is silent and solid as he absorbs the impact of the twisting events with barely a flinch. Dark eyes trained on Harry Pearce, behind which, his mind races to conclusions. "With evidence like this, surely we can just take Winters in?" he says, gesticulating.

Harry looks around the table. "You, Ben, I want you to return to Birmingham with Ros and Lucas, to continue your surveillance – just for the time being. Use your Asset, he sounds good. Go in yourself and make contact. We can beat Winters at his own spy games," he instructs. "Meanwhile, Jo will return to the Home Secretary and continue with security surrounding the leader's debate next week. I want background checks on everyone involved, even the cleaners and canteen ladies."

"In the meantime," says Ruth, once Harry has settled back down again. "Harry and I will be quizzing Simpson. We have him in the holding cells and will get as much information as we can. There's still things that don't add up."

Lucas can only admire Ruth's perfectionism. There's always things that don't add up in their world; most people just learn to live with the loose ends. Others just cut them away. But Ruth, dogged, determined and brilliant, doesn't have what it takes to walk away. She and Harry, they are two of a kind.

Chairs scrape across the cheap office carpet as the meeting concludes and the agents disperse. Lucas makes sure he falls into step with Ros, conscious of Ben lagging just behind them. For the moment, they say nothing but Ros nods towards the stairwell that leads to the roof of Thames House. Up there, the air is relative clear, free from the choking exhaust fumes that cloud the sooty city streets. Even on the stillest of summer days, a small breeze always sweeps the rooftops, always an advantage when digesting the political underworld of the British state.

They emerge beneath the wide, sailor blue skies. Lucas pauses as he takes in the view, inwardly naming all the buildings: the Gherkin, the Tower, Saint Paul's, Buck House, the Mall, the river winding through the endless urban jungle that constituted the capital city. A jumble of streets and houses, grand and epic alongside the squat and squalid. One of the few non-smokers on the team, he rarely gets to come up here. He would scan the endless rooftops longer, but the sound of Ros clearing her throat snaps him to attention.

"Well then," she says as he leans against the railings. "Another fun weekend in Birmingham lies ahead. Any ideas?"

Ben hunkers over a lighter as he struggles to light a cigarette, shielding its delicate flame from the soft breeze; his back to the murderous current. After a few flicks, a trail of pungent off-white smoke billows from his mouth. Leisurely drawing in the narcotics, his gaze darts between them both. The look of a satisfied addict lighting up his face, like nothing was wrong with the world now that he has his long awaited ciggie. Ros wrinkles her nose as the second hand smoke is blown straight into her face.

"That's a no then, is it?" she states waspishly, stepping away from the carcinogenic cloud.

Lucas shrugs. It's all he can do without pissing her off even more.

* * *

The interview room is shrouded in a semi-darkness. The silence accentuating the gloom beautifully. Sparsely furnished, the walls are blank and grey. Nothing to divert attention, nothing to add a trace of cheer or offer modicum of comfort. No one who enters is encouraged to stay longer than they must.

In the centre of the room, a table with uneven legs sits lopsided between four chairs. The floor is functional, cream linoleum that long since turned a colourless, murky hue. There are no windows, no clock on the wall and no calendar to give away the date. The man sat at that table, Douglas Simpson, has been there overnight, by the time Ruth and Harry join him.

Ruth smiles as she sits directly opposite him. He turns his face away, unable to bring himself to look at her. She can almost hear his sharp little teeth digging into the flesh of his tongue; biting down the insults she knew he was longing to hurl at her.

Harry smiles, too, as he sits beside Ruth. "That's right, you look away," he mutters. "You're hardly fit to look upon her." The advances Simpson made toward her clearly still rankled.

Ruth blushes, looking away in sudden coyness. But her tone is anything but coy as the session commences, tape recorder rolling.

"Yesterday morning, I removed a file from your premises that contained details of an Operation Mirage," she said, looking at the hard jawline of her opponent. "Care to explain it to us?"

Silence. Harry and Ruth both stare at him, but he doesn't budge an inch. Harry wavers for a moment, following Simpson's line of vision – a small, hairline crack that further mars the chipped grey surface. Simpson is studying it intently, using it to displace himself away from the interrogation. His skin is grey, like a chameleon blending in with its surroundings, he seems to have taken on the same colour as the walls. He almost disappears when he closes his steel-grey eyes.

"Carl Winters is undercover in a Mosque, isn't he? He's working for you," Ruth says, firing another question at him. All he does is blink. "He murdered the Imam. He murdered the Imam because you ordered it, didn't you?"

Harry gets to his feet and paces towards the back of the room, to where the shadows are deep enough to obscure even his bulk. When he speaks, his voice resonates from the darkness, ominous and discomfiting by turns, almost playful at others. "Whose side do you think he's really on, Douglas?" he asks. "Winters's conversion was genuine – he's a real Muslim. He spends a lot of time around his new Muslim brethren, doesn't he? You hardly ever see him now."

That does it. A muscle in Simpson's jaw clenches, relaxing almost immediately, but it was enough to betray the fact that he's listening. Then, he gulps hard, downing whatever reaction he's itching to vent. Harry goads him, easily. Meanwhile, Ruth keeps her focus fixed on Simpson alone. Although what Harry is suggesting is preposterous, it's the seed of doubt it plants in a sleep deprived mind that works the magic. He is all alone here, with nothing to distract him but the suggestion his agent has turned on him.

Ruth senses Harry's movements, hears him shuffling on the spot but does not concern herself with what he's doing. She seemingly enraptured by their detainee. "He was eager for this Op, wasn't he?" she rhetorically asks. "Eager to join the Muslim Brotherhood and prove his worth. How can you really trust a man like that, Dougie?" She reverts to the more familiar name; makes it personal.

Simpson is struggling against jamming his fingers in his ear to block the allegations out, and wanting to shout the walls down. Behind his shoulder, Harry slowly, soundlessly, materialises from the shadows. He leans down close to Simpson, who – like Ruth – had not heard his approach. Ruth carefully avoids looking at him as she guesses what he's about to do.

"TALK!" Harry bellows directly in the other man's ear, making him jump a foot in the air in alarm.

Simpson swears audibly, an automatic reaction he cannot control. Discomfited further, now sweat beads his forehead as the pressure mounts. His eyes slide in and out of focus as he slowly recovers. Having already broken his spell of silence, he looks at Ruth and smiles a crooked smile.

"You can't stop what's coming," he says, his voice a cockney drawl. "The horse has bolted and the stable door has been knocked off its hinges."

Harry doesn't sit back down. He just tugs at Ruth's arm, gesturing her away. They'll leave him to his doubts; let them blossom in his head like a poisoning vine. Maybe he'll be more compliant after another day of sensory deprivation.


	12. Stanley Road

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Special thanks to my Guest reviewers who I cannot contact personally to thank, and to my guest Welsh reviewer: diolch yn fawr iawn!

**Chapter Twelve: Stanley Road**

The surveillance van is virtually a home from home, for Ros and Ben. The bright side, for Ros at least, is that they now have a new lodger. Lucas has joined them, spending hours at a time moving about in a perpetual stoop and squinting through the poor light, trying to keep the equipment in focus. Misery loves company, or so people keep telling her. Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the van door, the world passes them by. Blissfully unaware of what is happening inside the van, they certainly don't want to know what's happening inside the Mosque, not ten feet away.

An undercover Carl Winters is jittery. The microphone worn by their Asset, Mahdi, picks up his heavy footfalls as he paces the empty Mosque. The sound of a rolled up prayer mat being kicked over elicits a shocked gasp from an unseen third person and swearing in the house of Allah poses no moral dilemma. Lucas raises his head as much he can in the cramped surveillance van, looking askance at Ros.

"If he carries on like this," he says, covering his own mic so Mahdi – listening within the Mosque – doesn't get distracted. "He's going to blow his own cover." He loathes using such terms when speaking of Winters; like he's a legitimate spy, when he's nothing more than a racist shit-kicker trying to start a war for his own agenda.

As if picking up on his thoughts, Ros merely smiles serenely. "And do our job for us," she says. "We could knock off early and go down the pub. Ah well, such is life." She looks down at her lap, where an innocent looking manila file sits. Sent to her by Ruth, via Thames House fastest courier, its contents are top secret, for now.

"Fair point," Lucas concedes, returning his attention to what's going on in the Mosque.

Winters's temper has been spiralling all morning. The communication with his superiors has been severed; no warnings given, no explanations forthcoming. He's not a happy man. His mood is highly unlikely to improve with the knowledge that that's because the 'superior' is currently being held in the Thames House hospitality suite, being interrogated by none other than Sir Harry Pearce himself. Ben Kaplan, sitting between Lucas and Ros, is keen to seize the advantage and instructs Mahdi on what to say.

"Ask him now if he thinks the chief has lost faith," he says, instinctively jamming a finger in his ear to hold his bug in place. "Make him feel vulnerable."

Mahdi does as he's asked. The screen in front of Lucas shows a grainy image of the meeting taking place inside, live from a fibre optic camera Mahdi had hidden himself, inside on the light fittings. They all had to admire the boy's ingenuity. The pixelated fuzz of Carl Winters continues its path around the room, but suddenly stops as he whirls round to face Mahdi.

"I know this man," he retorts angrily. "He wouldn't sell us out like that."

Then relief comes in the form of uninstigated back up from one of the others at the meeting.

"Perhaps he's right, Brother Khareem," he says. "You can trust no one in this game."

Lucas winces at the familiarity shown by the men inside, towards their snake in the grass. Only one of them, Mahdi, knows the truth and, to his credit, he's betrayed nothing of his knowledge. It's only fortified his resolve to bring the faux al-Qaeda cell to its knees. He steps up to the challenge once more.

"Brother, let us help you," he says, offering a hand. "Just take us to where the explosives are being kept and maybe we can make it safe until you know more."

A pause follows. All three inside the van lean closer, gathering around Lucas's one small screen. Winters sits down, head in hands. A gesture of defeat? They can only hope.

"You don't understand, Mahdi," he says. "Only he has the code."

Another pause, everyone holding their breath. No one inside the van dares to move, but Mahdi is quick to gather his wits.

"You mean, there's a primed bomb out there, ready to blow, and only your superior – who's conveniently dropped off the face of the earth – has the key to disarm it?" he asks, not bothering to disguise the incredulity in his voice.

Ros shakes her head. "He must be lying. If he set the bomb, then he has the key."

Ben glances up at her, making note of what she said. "Mahdi, try and get him to take you to the bomb again. We'll follow you."

Once again, it's the third man who steps in. "Come on, bruv. You lost control of this operation and I don't think any of us are gonna risk our lives for this!"

This time, it's Ros who chips in with instructions of Mahdi. "Mediate," she snaps down her mic. "Arbitrate between these two and win the trust of both."

They watch as Mahdi manoeuvres smoothly between both Winters and his key detractor, his hands held out in a gesture of pacification. Looking from one to the other, he appeals for calm.

"We're all in this together," he points out. "If we cave in on each other now, we're damned. But if we pull together, we can work this out. So come on, Khareem, take us to the place where the bomb is and let's just see what we can do from there. What d'you say?"

Winters is on his feet again; agitated and torn. He is depending on Simpson more than any of them had realised. With Simpson out of the picture, the situation is even more volatile. Mahdi speaks quietly, not so quietly that he doesn't come over the speakers, but it's intimate; between just him and Winters.

"If we do nothing, we're doomed," he points out, appealing to Winters's active and restless nature. "Anything's better than waiting around here, especially if our cell leader has sold us out."

Winters turns from the wall he had been facing, looking directly at Mahdi, making Lucas uncomfortable. It's like Winters is searching Mahdi, trying to see beneath his skin. Nothing is said, but Winters motions for the other men to follow him out of the room.

"Where we going?" asks Mahdi, needling the information for the benefit of his handlers.

"Stanley Road," replies Winters. "That's where it is."

Ben's already got the street map in his hand by the time Winters stops talking, scouring the network of streets, roads and highways, all crisscrossed in a red, white and blue blur. His expression freezes, something Lucas attributed to the sound of the men inside the Mosque now walking past their van, inches from discovering what they're doing there. But when he looks up again, he says: "It's a residential street. It could kill hundreds."

The hot weather has broken and a fine drizzle fills the air with moisture. So little, yet still managing to drench the populace with its insidious dampness. The grey skies blend with the grey horizons, making them both indistinguishable from each other. Glad to be out of it, Harry slackens his pace as he enters Thames House, umbrella folded under one arm and in a steady mood. He even flashes the security guard a smile as he passes through the metal detectors.

The pods slide open, admitting him to a Grid that's already a hive of activity. Skilfully dodging a gaggle of clerks milling around the water cooler, he heads for his Office, careful to conduct a quick Ruth scan as he goes. He spots her, already at her desk and looking out for him. Or so he hopes, a hope enhanced by the fact that as soon as she sees him she's on her feet.

"Horrible day," she chirrups, sounding rather happy about it, as she greets him.

He shrugs off his over coat, sliding his brolly into the stand beside it. "Worse to come," he admits. "How's our guest doing?"

Ruth's enthusiasm is as fleeting as an April shower, where Douglas Simpson is concerned. Only now, he notices, her pallour has turned almost grey. "While you were out, Lucas briefed us," she explains, leading him across the Grid, to where his Office lies empty and locked. "They're on their way to the site of the bomb right now. It's a residential street in central Birmingham. Only Simpson has the key to disarming it."

Harry, who had been in the process of unlocking his door, slumps against it instead, letting his head thump against the wood grain. "Shit," he moans, drawing the word out at leisure. He wonders how she could have been cheerful in the first instance, but he's not holding out hope of a silver lining.

Three nights in solitary confinement, with sensory deprivation; the second night even included several hours of Happy Hardcore dance music blasting directly into the cell. It is enough to break Mr Universe like a porcelain plate. Simpson, by the time Ruth and Harry reach him, has murder in his eyes. For now, however, it is contained. Like a spring, permanently coiled as tight as it can be, the smallest nudge could make him burst open. But, Harry well knows, they need to be able to control the eventual explosion and use it to their own advantage. If they simply annoy him too much, he'll just rant and rave, insults against them. Useless to anyone. Their task is to apply pressure to all the right weak spots, and extract precise information. He hates to admit it, but these psychological war games really are an art form.

He and Ruth sit themselves down in front of Simpson, a tape recorder picking up every sound. They take their time, let the tension build, let expectations gather while they bide their sweet time. Harry checks his text messages. Ruth pretends to be reading some papers she's brought into the interview room with her, meticulously turning each page so the rustle of paper starts to grate on Simpson's scattering nerves. Harry's respect for her as an Operative surges, he has to stop himself from flashing her an approving grin.

"You can be quite Ruth-less at times," he quietly quips in her ear, chortling at his own joke.

Simpson didn't catch what he'd said, and shoots them both his best menacing scowl in response. The effect, however, is diminished by his patchy, unkempt beard and the reek of stale sweat emanating from beneath his dishevelled Armani suit. Already, his veneer of respectability is crumbling. Ruth, for her part, merely turns an innocent smile to her boss. When she returns to Simpson, however, her expression is completely blank.

"It's all so futile, Douglas," she says, keeping her tone calm; almost inconsequential. "You see, I kept wondering to myself, why you weren't doing more. But the answer is staring us in the face, isn't it? You can't do more, because this all you have."

Even Harry is unsure of what path she's headed down; Simpson, too, is so bewildered he's actually paying attention.

"I mean, you want to start a race war," she continues. "But it's a war of one, isn't it. Just this Carl Winters against the rest of the world, with you pulling his strings – or, so you hope. You can't do anything yourself because you're pretending to be a politician. So that leaves Carl, and no one seems to be rushing to join him."

"It's rather sad, really," Harry joins in. "Not even the Muslims have noticed you-"

Finally, Simpson breaks. "They noticed that Imam, didn't they?" he snaps, finally revealing something. It's a beginning.

Harry suppresses a triumphant smile. "Ah, so that was you?" he asks. "Or rather, your lone foot soldier, Carl Winters did it?"

Simpson smiles. "You want me to grass him up, but you already know," he says, hanging his head low. Exhaustion. He's barely upright. Harry lets that one small ray of hope brighten – it means Simpson's resistance is low.

Ruth rolls her eyes. "But you're just two malfeasant upstarts," she states, sounding amused now. "Like two kids running into Marks and Spencer; shouting 'Tesco rules' and then running away again. No one notices you, no one cares and those who do see you just think you're a little bit mad."

Harry mulls it over, just for a second. "Actually, I don't think anyone's really noticed at all," he finally concludes.

"Except for us, of course," Ruth interjects. "We notice everything. And your friend, Carl Winters is about to walk into a trap. We'll see how long his loyalty to you lasts, then."

Simpson's whole body jerks, as if he'd been about to fall asleep. Given his exhaustion, it wouldn't surprise either Harry or Ruth if he did. However, he then fixes with Ruth with a stare all the more penetrative coming, as it did, from such a worn out face. "If you ever had any feelings for me at all-"

Ruth cuts him off. "Yes. Revulsion." She returns his look, unflinching and unashamed. Once again, he backs down in defeat. He's growing desperate, playing his last card.

Harry rummages in the file he brought in with him, and lays out an A4 page. He places it so that Simpson can see it. It's a mock-up of a tabloid headline. "This will be tomorrow's front page of the Daily Mirror newspaper," Harry states. "You know they've been after you for a long time, now. They're no Murdoch rag; they're no Daily Fail, immigrant hating, self-interested shitsheet, either. They're a tabloid with a conscience and a very, very big readership."

The headline reads: Neo-Nazi Bomb Plot Terror. Following that, a bold paragraph giving sketchy details about 'security forces' discovering a bomb plot, but with lots of rich details all about members of the English Nationalist Party and their connections to the English Defence Association. Also in the article, details of funding from Russian and Polish neo-Nazis; off shore banking and some child porn rings thrown in for good measure. Off-setting the whole piece, a full colour photograph of Simpson himself in a warm embrace with his Russian counterpart.

Simpson looks set to vomit. Ruth even inches her chair back. The picture was cleverly photoshopped by Malcolm that morning. Ben's journalist friend, newly recruited by the Mirror newspaper is currently at his desk, salivating over his phone, just waiting to get the go ahead with the story fed to him by MI5. Ruth had been ironing out the details all morning.

"This is all lies," Simpson growls low, barely able to form the words.

Harry smiles. "Save yourself the trouble," he says, "and save your friend, Carl Winters. Just tell us about the bomb. Give us the code. You might just be in with a shot of redemption."

Ruth watches Simpson's reaction carefully, with growing frustration as his countenance completely changes. He smiles slowly, tries to stop himself from laughing. But soon, he's positively howling. Beside her, she can feel Harry's whole body go rigid with anger. His temper inching closer to the edge of apoplexy. All the while, the laughter continues.

"You think you can be my puppet masters-"

Harry snaps. "Like you have a choice, you-"

"Harry!" Ruth cuts over him, loud enough to calm both men. She turns to Simpson. "Think about it, Simpson. We are going to destroy you and leave you with nothing but your vacuous shell of an existence, unless you find yourself in a more compliant mood."

With that, she closes the session and leads the way out. Harry follows her, still fuming and ready to lash out. However, as soon as they're back in his office, Ruth is quick to round on him. "You're playing into his hands," she points out, waspishly. "You're giving him a reaction."

Her words puncture his fury, he almost deflates, reducing in size as he gets a grip on himself. The worst part is, he knows she's right. He pours them both a measure of whiskey, judging the early afternoon hour to be quite appropriate. Ruth doesn't disagree as she cradles her glass in both hands.

Time for the good news.

"He's breaking," she points out.

Harry slumps down in his seat, relaxing at last. "Oh, I know."

"All we need to do now is wait and see what Carl thinks of the file," she adds. "Ros signed for it at seven this morning."

Harry glances at his watch. "Yes," he agrees. "They should be there by now."

Ros managed to intercept Mahdi at the junction between Stanley Road and Cranford Street. He followed the order to slow down and lag behind the others as they made their way to the bomb site. The manila file, secreted down the front of his hoodie, he set off again. Catching up with the others, he passed off his absence by telling them he'd stopped to tie his shoelaces.

"Make sure they all see that file," she had instructed him, not half an hour ago. "We'll be in before it turns really nasty."

"They're gonna know I'm with you," he replied. "They'll kill me, too."

"We won't let that happen, Mahdi," she assured him. "But, you won't be able to come back here."

He laughed when she told him that. "I always dreamed of getting out of this place," he said, turning his face to the horizon, down the steep, down sloping road that overlooked the vast, industrial sprawl of inner-city Birmingham. The place where hope comes to die.

She smiled. "Now's your chance; run for your life."

Now, sitting in the back of the surveillance van, preparing firearms for the coming siege, she wonders if he fully understood the implications. But, it's too late for a conscience now. Mahdi's in there, talking normally but waiting for the moment to arrive. Lucas and Ben, listening intently to every word spoken. She can tell, by the expressions on their faces that it hasn't happened yet. This is the hinterland, the buffer zone between getting what they need, and doing what they need to do. But it's coming soon; they all know that.

Now that Mahdi knows the full truth about Khareem, it all makes sense. Why none of them really know anything about his past; why they've never been invited back to his house, or why he's never let them get close. He was never a part of their community and he was never one of them.

The house is small, a squat by the looks of it. The electricity is intermittent; the windows boarded up and the gardens an over-grown wilderness; a vermin's paradise. Inside, just a few flea infested settees betray signs of life, and a sleeping bag next to a paraffin stove in the corner of the living room. The main source of light comes from between the cracks in the planks that are nailed over the windows. It's just enough light to make out the splits of subsidence that vein the walls. This house should be condemned, if it isn't already.

Mahdi, along with his three companions, all fit themselves dubiously on to the one sofa, each blocking thoughts of fleas to the backs of their minds. Winters, or Khareem as he still is to the other three, pauses by the empty hearth, as if trying to block their view of the empty coke cans and crisp wrappers that wither there.

"It's in the basement," he states. The walk from the Mosque to the house appears to have calmed him.

Mahdi folds his arms across his chest, obscuring the outline of the manila file Ros handed to him. "So, you made the bomb here and were going to transport it somewhere else, then?" he asks.

Winters looks distracted by the question. "Of course," he retorts. "I wasn't going to leave it here, was it?"

Mahdi shrugs. "Seems a bit risky to me," he states, merely observationally, rather than accusatory. "I mean, you have it primed already. You were going to go walking around with it-"

"Duh!" one of the others mockingly cuts him off. "We're martyrs, aren't we. What else we supposed to do with it?"

Mahdi lets the insult slide and produces the file from under his hoodie. "I dunno, lads," he states, opening the file. "Perhaps Carl here can tell us more?"

Only Khareem gets what was just said, the other three are merely bewildered. Then, the man sitting next to Mahdi takes the file.

"What did you just call me?" Winters asks, stepping away from the hearth.

Mahdi takes a slow breath, evening out his racing heart before he answers. "By your true name."

"What's going on?" one of the others asks.

No one answers.

"Tell them, Carl," says Mahdi, getting to his feet. "Tell them who you really are and what you're really doing."

The truth seeps in slowly, but the evidence in the file is overwhelming. There are copies of Operation Mirage, a picture of Carl both in and out of disguise and, most damning of all, details of the murder of Imam Atallah.

"It's not true," Winters protests, inching away from them again. He tries to laugh it off, but his attempts at laughter dissolve into the suffocating silence of the others. "They're fitting me up," he tries to protest further.

Slowly, they all get to their feet again.

"You used us," one man, Ahmed, supposedly Winters's right hand man, says. "You used us to start a war against ourselves. Admit it, you fucking coward!"

Ahmed's raised voice breaks the spell and rallies the others to action. In that one moment, the air is filled with shouting and recrimination, threatening to spill over. Mahdi manages to step back before the first punch is thrown and, for a moment, considers running outside to physically drag his handlers inside. Before long, however, he can just make out the sound of the front door being kicked in. None of them hear the sound of heavy footsteps on the rotting floor boards.

"FREEZE!" the voices of Ros Myers, Lucas North and Ben Kaplan call out in unison. "Step back and lay down on the floor, now!" Ros's voice alone instructs. Only Mahdi slips away unnoticed, his part is done.


	13. Sky High

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply and I own none of this. Thanks again and reviews would be welcome.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: Sky High**

It's like they're all in suspended animation. Lucas, Ros and Ben filter inside, guns loaded and aimed on the men now crowded into the front room. No one moves, but each party looks to the other. The smell of the damp, the subsidence and the squalor inside make closing ranks around these people almost impossible. But Ros, on form, is the first to place one perilously high heeled boot down, closer to their quarry. She singles him out from others, and trains her gun directly on Carl Winters.

"You," she says, dispassionate and stolid. "I want you. The others can disappear."

Still, no one moves. One man, the closest to the living room door that's barely still on its hinges, looks towards the exit. No more than a longing look, and seems to think better of making a physical move. Barely a twitch from the others, and Winters holds her gaze unflinchingly; defiant to the end.

"Move it!" Lucas bellows at them, loud enough to leave an echo in the virtually empty room.

Ros moves closer to Winters, lest he should get any ideas about trying to escape with the others, so that her gun is almost digging into his temple. The other men comply, hesitantly at first, as if they're going to be shot in the back. To emphasise their real target, Ros backs Winters up, the barrel of the gun pressing against his sweaty temple.

"Just one move, and I will shoot you," she calmly informs him.

Ben and Lucas, still in place, guarding the living room door and the far wall, stand at ease once they have Winters alone. Ros has him under control, but they're still ready to spring into action if needed.

"Ben, search the house," Lucas says, not taking his eye from Ros or Winters as he does.

Ben's gone in a trice, through the door and straight into the gloom of the hallway. Within moments, the sound of his footsteps are pounding overhead. As back for Ros, Lucas joins her, watching as she forces Winters into a corner, gun still trained on his head. He's wild-eyed with terror, sweat beading his pale skin in droplets. His hands are raised in a gesture of surrender, flinching higher every time Ros gives him a nudge with her weapon.

"Tell us where it is," she demands, her tone still icily calm.

"Where what is?" he asks, defiant even in the face of his own obvious nerves.

Lucas rolls his eyes. "Don't play dumb, Winters," he retorts, bored more than anything. "The bomb. Tell us where it is, or we'll find it ourselves and blast your brains out."

Carl Winters looks at him, his grey eyes narrowing as he concentrates hard on Lucas. A piercing look, that sends a thrill of discomfiture down his spine. The captive smiles, revealing a row of large, white teeth with one canine missing.

"Hey," says Winters, with a dry laugh. "I know you, don't I?"

Lucas re-aims his gun, gripping it with both hands to hide the fact that he's shaking. He's being neurotic again, it doesn't matter that he's been recognised after the Op but, after Russia, it still unnerves him when a target realises they've met before, under very different circumstances.

"I've never met you before in my life," Lucas replies, steadily. It was an alias this man met. A shadow of a non-person. Not Lucas himself.

Winters is having none of it. "You were at that meeting," he elaborates. "With Peach. I know! You were the one he was talking to that night by the Docks; you were handling him! It all makes sense now, Mr Spook. Tell me, do you like what I did to him?"

Outwardly, Lucas keeps his emotions firmly in check. Inside, however, he dearly wishes he could pistol whip the bastard, and a flare of anger twists his gut as he recalls that night. He will not dignify Winters's taunts with comment. Ros, however, is over it.

"Bored of this now," she interjects, all bright and sing-song as she gives Winters a sharp dig in the temple with the barrel of her gun. "Tell us where the bomb is, or I'll shoot you."

Winters hesitates. He sharply turns from Lucas, back to Ros, a flicker of a squint as he tries to get her in focus this close up. "You wouldn't dare," he whispers.

Ros smiles as she slides the hammer of the gun slowly back with her thumb, drawing the gesture out, like a strip tease to the death. "We've already done for Simpson," she tells him. "Why do you think you haven't-"

"If he was dead it would have been on the news!" Winters cuts across her, flushing with anger.

Both Ros and Lucas laugh. "We're MI5, Carl," she replies, sounded thoroughly amused. "We can make it look like an accident; we can make so a body vanishes – never to be seen again. We can make it so you're dead without dying. It's what we do, it's our art. No one will ever see your boss again."

From above, the sounds of Ben searching the house continue. Fruitless so far, they still want the satisfaction of forcing Carl Winters to take them there, instead. Either way, both Lucas and Ros have already agreed, it's only fair that he gets to diffuse the damn thing. To that end, Lucas steps forward and raises his own gun again, closer to Winters.

"Take us to where it is," he demands, "it's over, Carl. So just take us there."

"Is it even in this house?" Ros asks. They've had no official confirmation, really. Just his word and there's no sign of the thing itself.

Winters nods. "Yeah, it's here," he confirms, suddenly cooperative. "It's in the basement."

Ros suppresses a quick smile. "Lead the way," she says.

Lucas calls out to Ben as he goes, who reappears within seconds as Winters leads them cautiously through an ill lit hallway. There's a door beside the electricity meter, small and narrow, that opens on to a flight of rotten wooden steps, leading beneath the house itself. Winters pulls a string by the door, and an overhead bulb flickers into life, weakly. In single file, they each have to stoop low to avoid hitting their heads, making it difficult to aim the gun and keep Winters in line.

At the bottom of the stairs, they find themselves in a hot, cramped room the same size as the living room directly above them. The oppressive heat comes from the boiler, sat in the left hand corner. The ceiling is low, air circulation poor and the stench of the dry rot heavy in the atmosphere. It makes Lucas's eyes water.

The device, viable and primed, takes up a square meter space in the middle. Wires connect the semtex to the timer; the timer connected to a detonator. The clock ticks down. Five minutes. Four minutes, fifty-nine seconds….

Ros takes a deep breath as she reaches for the handcuffs in her back pocket. "Phone home, now," she instructs Lucas as she claps one cuff on Winters's wrist and the other on a hot water pipe. Turning back to him, she says: "if, by chance, you remember the code, we will release you. Fail, and we'll blow you sky high."

* * *

"So," says Ruth, looking at Harry from across the desk that divides them in his office. "What next?"

It's a pertinent question. Douglas Simpson seems as determined as any Jihadist to become a martyr to his cause. Say nothing and the consequences be damned. But, they had made inroads during their last session, and Ruth's instinct is to keep the pressure up. Raise it by notches, until he finally breaks.

Harry allows himself a brief moment of vulnerability, admitting that he's momentarily lost. With only Ruth there to see, he knows the secret of his human fallibility is safe with her. He goes to say something, only to be rudely cut off by the ringing of the telephone. Ruth sits back with a wan smile on her face, nodding towards it.

He rolls his eyes and lifts the receiver. "Harry Pearce," he gruffly barks at the caller.

Ruth cannot hear what's being said, but Harry mouths the word "Lucas" to her. Leaning forwards, she watches Harry intently, noting the shutters coming down in his expression. It's what he does when the situation goes from serious, to volcanic at the unexpected turn of a hair. In response, she feels her own stomach muscles tighten in nervous anticipation.

"Right," says Harry. "Okay, Lucas. I'm calling you back on my mobile. Stay where you are, but send out someone to evacuate the streets. Now."

He hangs up the phone and snatches up his mobile simultaneously. Getting to his feet, he marches out the door with just a nod for her to follow him. While he's waiting for Lucas to answer again, he turns to Ruth as they both stride towards the interrogation room where Simpson waits for them.

"They found the bomb," he states. "Set to blow in less than five minutes."

It leaves her feeling cold and nauseous, but always that steely determination underpinning everything else. Five minutes is five minutes, after all. Harry jabs the code into the interrogation room door, with such force that nearly knocks the box off the wall. As the door yields, she sees Simpson in there, where they left him barely thirty minutes ago. When he turns to look at them, she thinks he knows already. He's known all along.

With not a second to spare, Ruth sits back down where she was previously. Harry, meanwhile, uses his free hand to drag Simpson from his seat and pin him against the wall by the throat. Simpson's too weak to fight back. All he can manage is to bring his own hands up to Harry's, trying to prise himself free again. Harry responds by tightening his grip further, making the other man rasp for air.

Ruth keeps herself utterly passive, acting as though everything is completely normal.

"You've seen tomorrow's front pages," she tells Simpson. "But over lunch I was thinking up some embellishments. How do you like gay affair with Neo-Nazi bomber being thrown in on top of the porn rings, embezzlement and murder plots?"

Simpson aims a limp kick at Harry, who replies with a quick squeeze to Simpson's throat, making his eyes bulge and the veins in his neck swell. Ruth nods at Harry, who immediately lets go of Simpson's throat. He crumples like a punctured sex doll, mouth still open and gasping for air at their feet.

"Winters is dead, Simpson," Harry tells him, trying to break his resolve. "The Muslims at the Mosque found out who he really was. Beaten to death in front of our Officers. We searched his house, found the bomb and now you have less than four minutes to save your soul."

Ruth gets up and moves to stand by Simpson's head, looking down at him with her arms folded. These vulgar methods make her queasy. But the sight of the entrails of innocent civilians blasted across city streets makes her positively sick to the stomach. She's prepared to let Harry have his way, to get that code. However, she clings to her own cold reasoning to beat her own path.

"This cause is dead, Dougie," she says, resorting to pet names to personalise the situation. "You're going to lose everything and you know what they do to peadophiles in prison. Tell us the code and you can walk away from this."

Harry picks up on the trail. "A new life, away from Britain in some all-white country of your choice," he states.

"Why not to go to the south of America?" Ruth suggests, brightly. "We'll put in a good word for you with the Ku Klux Klan, if you want."

While she talks, Harry issues instructions to Lucas down the phone. She can just hear his distant voice, counting down the minutes and seconds until the bomb goes off. Harry turns to her, holds up two fingers, then five. Two minutes, five seconds. Not nearly enough time to play this absurd game for much longer.

She looks back down at the crumpled, broken man at her feet and lowers herself slowly so that she's kneeling.

"Hundreds of people will die and their blood will be on your hands," she tells him. "Why this, when you could take our offer?"

She holds her breath as Simpson breaks down, his face flushing purple, beading with sweat as he tries to turn away from her. Behind her, Harry continues his running commentary: "One and a half minutes? Lucas, start getting out of there, now…. No, I mean it, get out of there now!"

Ruth grabs a fistful of Simpson's hair, hauling his head up off the ground and speaks directly into his face. "You're not a killer," she says, harsh and uncompromising. "Hundreds will be dead in less than a minute now, and you need to be the one that stops it. Do it, do it for the England you claim to love so much."

Simpson's lips compress to a white line, biting down on his own tongue as he squeezes his eyes shut.

* * *

Less than a minute. Winters is straining against the handcuffs, now. But Ros is unflinching. If the bomb goes off, he's going up with it. He's reduced to spitting at them every time they go near the device. With less than sixty seconds on the clock, he turns to order Ros out of the building, to join Ben and Mahdi in the evacuation.

"I'm not leaving," she insists.

He has no time to argue. Instead, he hangs up the phone to Harry and joins her by the device as they try to work out the best way of disarming it. In the heat of the moment, they don't hear the third person joining them.

"It's just an electronic device!" Mahdi shouts, almost jumping in the air in panicked excitement. "Disconnect the right wires, and it'll disarm safely."

Lucas is aghast. "What the fuck-"

But the other man cuts him off. "Look, the timer is connected to the detonator, so cut that first," he shouts over Lucas, dodging another globule of spit from Winters. "Separate the detonator from the timer, and it won't know when to blow. It's just common sense."

Ros frowns. "So it could blow as soon as it's severed!" she protests.

"No, wait, cut them simultaneously," Lucas interjects. "Ros, get the wire that connects the detonator to the timer and I'll get the wire that connects the detonator to the fuse."

Twenty seconds, and Ros isn't arguing. "And you get the fuck out of here," he snaps at Mahdi.

With the wires firmly in hand, they hunch down by the device, squatting close together for reassurance. They look at one another for a brief moment, a moment of understanding passing between them. Lucas counts them in. "One… two…" he stops, and they both pull hard on the wires, disconnecting them both from the explosives together. They watch as the clock counting down to the explosion pauses at two seconds, flashes twice and goes dark.

* * *

Harry looks at the screen of the phone. "He's hung up," he informs Ruth.

She steps away from the prostrate body of their captive. Whatever is happening, she knows it's too late to do anything about it now. She swallows, finding her throat dry. Looking down at Simpson, she feels sick. There's nothing more to say or do now, except throw him to the dogs. Picking up on the train of her thoughts, Harry gestures towards the door. They both could do with a drink. Silently, they make their way across the Grid. They'll never have to look at Simpson ever again, but that's still too soon for Ruth.

"They could have got out safely," she states, think aloud, more than anything else. Inside, however, she's prepared for the worst already.

Harry pours them both a drink and switches the nearby digital radio to the BBC news service. Any minute now, reports of the explosion will start to filter through. Perhaps the news crews have already had the call? They will be hauled over the coals for it; but Simpson will pay. Harry makes a mental note to make sure of that. He'll make it look like a heart attack, if Ros, Lucas and Ben are gone because of him. There will be blood, of that he is certain, but he stopped flinching at the sight of it a long time ago.

He goes to speak some platitudinous words of comfort to Ruth, but his mobile phone rings, shrilly cutting him off.

"Harry Pearce," he answers sharply.

Ruth puts down her glass before she's taken so much as a sip and watches him intently. Harry smiles. So does she.

"Excellent work, Lucas. Well done," he says.

Just that.

* * *

Back out in the open air, Lucas breathes deeply. Clean air, the sky and the clouds and the pitiful rays of sun trying to break through the blanket of grey clouds. He doubles over, hands on knees as the adrenaline subsides, leaving him drained and empty. All he can see is the cracked, uneven pavement of Stanley Road. But, when he stands up straight again, Ros has appeared right in front of him. She has that passively pleasant expression on her face. Not too much, not too little. Just about right in Ros's world. She was never one to get overly excited by near misses with a grizzly death.

"How's Harry?" she asks.

"He's good," he shrugs, then raises a lop sided smile. "You?"

She smirks. "Yeah, I guess I'm good, too."

Everything's good again. That's a relief to him. He looks back at the house, now being stormed by CO19, thwarted of a fight, they have to content themselves with simply marching Carl Winters away, broken and uncooperative as he is, it's not enough for them to retaliate with force. At the end, it's all so mundane. Just like any ordinary arrest, of any ordinary criminal. But that's only because they made it normal. The house, he sees, is in just as many bits as they found it in. Everyone is still alive. Life goes on.

Ros, however, is looking over his shoulder. At a youth leaning against the house's crumbling gate posts and looking down the street, his dark eyes unfocused. Lucas turns to see what she's looking at. Mahdi.

She walks over to him with a steady pace, leaving Lucas to collect his still scattered nerves.

"Hey," she says to the boy. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen," he replies, just as Lucas joins them. "Yes, my mum knows I'm here," he sighs.

"Liar!" Ros retorts. "A Levels?"

Mahdi nods. "I'm getting the results in a few months."

She nods. "Then what?"

He shrugs. "Dunno," he replies, eventually. "Uni, I guess."

"Guess no more, Mahdi," she advises, still sounding casual. "Keep in touch and let us know your results. Get your degree-" she pauses as she hands him a small card from inside her jacket pocket. "-phone the number on here and tell them that Ros Myers recommended you. Even if I'm dead by then, they'll know it's legit."

She sounds so casual about the prospect of her own death, Lucas wonders if that alone won't dissuade Mahdi. But, he takes the card, wide eyed with surprise and awe.

"Is this…" he begins, but his words trail off.

Ros grins again. "Yes, I'm recruiting you. Finish your education, and keep us in mind."

With that, they turn and begin walking up the street. Ben waits for them, leaning against the surveillance van, watching them through narrowed eyes. Pissed at having missed all the fun and games. He'll just have to wait until next time.

The Home Secretary looks as though he's out cold. Really, though, he's just relieved. The whole team watches him carefully, each person wondering if he isn't unconscious after all. He's slumped across the table, face down with his arms spread out. Only the steady rise and fall of his arched back betrays the continuing function of his heart and lungs.

"It's over," he says in a muffled voice. "It's finally over."

Winters is charged with two murders. Simpson charged with abduction, embezzlement and conspiracy to murder – among other things. The reputation of the English Defence Association was already mud, though. Really, their biggest prize is the English Nationalists Party, and their weak façade of respectability. They will be shamed and humiliated before the whole nation, as soon as the papers go to print in the morning.

Harry cranes his neck, looking down the table. "Everything all right, Home Secretary?" he asks brow wrinkling in concern.

Finally, William Carson sits up straight. "Yes, Harry, thank you," he replies, giving his head a shake. "The right is neutralised. The bomb diffused. We are all saved."

'Quite,' Harry thinks, silently. 'Now you can get back to bondage parties and Ministerial Gentlemen's Clubs.' He looks to Ruth, who drops her gaze coyly when she sees him looking. The colour pinches her cheeks. He knows he'll take her out later. A restaurant booked in a false name, this time around. Then the theatre? Probably.

He looks around at them all: Jo, Ben, Lucas, Ros, Ruth, Malcolm and the Home Secretary. He smiles at them all.

"Thank you," he says. Such a small, inadequate sounding word. But one that is most heartfelt. "Thank you, all of you."

**~FINIS~**

* * *

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. I really do appreciate it and it's been a pleasure. Thank you!**


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